Shirt Tails
by Jantallian
Summary: Jess only wore a spotted shirt once, in "Drifter's Gold." Why would he decide to wear such a shirt and what would influence his choice? There are many possible answers! Here are seven, all different. Some bring in familiar characters from other stories, including the return of Napoleon the duck, but all highlight the enduring friendship at the heart of the Sherman Ranch.
1. Chapter 1

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 **Shirt Tails**

Jantallian

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Dedicated to Westfalen,

who started this train of thought with some wicked and witty answers

to the question: _Why did Jess wear that spotted shirt_ in ' _Drifter's Gold'?_

 **In fact, why might he wear a spotted shirt at all? Herein are some answers!**

These tales are not one continuous story or linked to each other. **Each chapter is a self-contained story** which proposes a different reason and outcome in a different scenario and genre at different stages in the Sherman Relay Station time-line. Some pick up on action and characters from previous stories I have posted. The Tales can be read in any order, although I have put them the way they are for the sake of contrast and balance.

And if you have an ancient photo of your 'many greats' grand-pappy in a floral shirt and his letters vouchsafing the universal tolerance of exotic shirt materials by real cowboys, please bear in mind, while reading them, that these tales are just fiction.

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 **Tale (Chapter) Titles**

1\. The Persistent Widow

2\. Wolf Brother's Farewell

3\. Spots Before the Eyes

4\. A Day with a Duck

5\. Ropa Adecuada and One Darn'd Shirt

6\. Hold On to This Shirt

7\. The Girl I Left Behind Me

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 **Shirt Tale 1**

 **The Persistent Widow**

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"Parcel for y', Jess!"

Jess Harper looked up at the shotgun guard leaning down off the stage from Laramie and his blue eyes narrowed forbiddingly. There had been a distinct snigger in the man's voice. Jess let his icy stare linger on the man for several seconds. The guard gave him a nervous and placating grin; he'd been stupid enough to forget Harper's short-fuse reputation and his tendency to react first with his fists. Satisfied that he'd made his point, Jess took the parcel without a word and, turning his back on the stage, stalked across the Sherman Relay Station yard and into the house.

As his employee strode through the front door, Slim Sherman looked up sharply. Jess disappeared into the bunk room. Slim dumped the coffee pot on the table and followed him quickly. _Jess was supposed to be changing the team. What on earth was he doing inside_?

Once in the room, he saw the parcel in Jess's hands. The frown creasing Slim's pleasant face was transformed into a broad grin. Then he saw the set of Jess's shoulders and his natural kindness kicked him in the conscience. The grin faded as fast as it had come. He said sympathetically: "Not another one!"

Jess tore open the parcel, his every movement full of resigned irritation. He looked down at the shirt in his hands.

It was pea green with white spots.

Both men regarded this latest offering with mute horror.

At last Jess moved. He folded the shirt carefully and placed it with a kind of gentle, controlled fury on the top of a pile of shirts on the chest of drawers. At the bottom of the pile, there were checked patterns in different sizes and varieties of incompatible colors. Then came striped shirts - wide stripes, narrow stripes and even one with diagonal stripes, in an assortment of blindingly bright hues. Worst of all, the next set had flowers, ditto!

Jess heaved a shuddering groan, the only sound of pain Slim could remember him making, ever, so far in their acquaintance. He put a compassionate hand on the younger man's shoulder and said: "Should have worn one of the check ones!"

Jess looked at the checked shirts at the bottom of the pile. "You are kiddin'!" The checked shirts would have looked lurid in a circus. The rest were no better.

Slim firmly restrained his desire to roar with laughter at the ridiculous situation a little friendly help had landed Jess in. It wasn't fair and there was no way his friend deserved the disproportionate response which his kindness and hard work had brought upon him.

All he had done was to be part of a working party, helping the unfortunate Mrs. Amelia Benson, who, arriving with her husband to start a new life in Laramie, had been widowed almost immediately by a falling tree. Naturally the community had rallied round. The men had given their labor to finish clearing the little plot the Bensons owned and completing the half-built house and shop which had been going to make their fortune. Or not, as the case may be, since there was little demand in Laramie for fine bone china and such merchandise did not, in any case, take kindly to long transit in unsprung wagons. Jess, of course, had flung himself into clearing the trees and brush to the detriment, as usual, of his shirt. Mrs. Benson, like so many women of a certain age before her, had fallen prey to the 'Jess Harper needs mothering' syndrome and decided that it was her mission in life to keep him in whole shirts. Still worse, she had not kept her intentions from the sympathetic ladies of the town, whose gossip grapevine was unrivaled.

Unfortunately her taste in material was execrable. And equally unfortunately Jess's kindly desire not to hurt her feelings by explaining why he was not wearing the shirts had backfired. The town ladies' spy network was also unrivaled and, when this news reached her, Mrs. Benson assumed that each of them had met the fate of all Jess's shirts. She kept on supplying him with replacements.

It had been going on for ten weeks now. On what seemed like a daily basis.

Jess gave another stifled groan in which the words "What am I gonna do?" could just be distinguished.

Slim took pity on him. He gave the shoulder under his hand a squeeze and said: " _You_ aren't going to do anything."

"I ain't?" Jess sounded almost despairing.

" _We_ ," Slim reminded him firmly of their team-work, "are going to think of a plan. And we're going to consult the master of cunning - Jonesy." He gave Jess a shake to bring him back to the realities of their day. "Now get out there and look after the stage. The team isn't going to get changed by magic!" And with that, he propelled Jess inexorably in the direction of the yard.

It was, therefore, some time before the three of them were able to sit down at the table with copious supplies of coffee and set about applying their minds, jointly and severally, to coming up with a scheme to circumvent Mrs. Benson's misplaced kindliness. Once they had discarded the more far-fetched ideas – starting a new fashion in Laramie (Jonesy), marrying her off to someone else (Slim) and emigrating to California (Jess) – and since no-one wanted to hurt her feelings by actually telling her the truth, they were stumped. At least, they were until Jonesy gave a sudden snort of excitement.

"Got it! What y' gotta do is t' make her feel that wearin' those shirts ain't good for you."

Jess's face said very plainly how perfectly obvious this was, but he merely raised an eyebrow and waited for his friends to come up with a way of doing so. After a lot of vigorous discussion and the identification of those they would need to help them, Jonesy and Slim turned to Jess with satisfaction. He was less than impressed by the plan.

"Jonesy, I cain't –"

"You wanna fill the bunk-room with that pile o' shirts?" Jonesy asked sardonically. "Y' can, Jess Harper, an' y' gonna!"

 **ooooo**

Perhaps a decent veil should be drawn over Jess's progress down the main street of Laramie, clad in the pea-green spotted shirt. Suffice it to say that no aristocrat riding in the tumbrel to the guillotine could have felt worse. It was not in his nature, however, to show any nervousness or embarrassment in public. He simply switched his mind into gun-fight mode: cold, automatic and alert. And he kept his concentration on making Traveller move at a sedate walk, when both of them would much have preferred to reprise the mad escaping gallop which had ensued from their very first entry into the town.

A little ripple of interest ran along the street as Jess rode by. People came out of doorways and alleys. Children ran and pointed and were hauled back by their parents. The smith dropped his hammer on the anvil with a mighty clang of surprise. The Sheriff, sensing the disturbance, erupted from his office, rifle in hand. And, of course, the men of the town forsook whatever they had been up to in the Livery Stable, the General Store, the Telegraph Office, the hotel and, not least, the saloon. There were one or two cat-calls and whistles, but on the whole, there was an unspoken sense of male solidarity in the face of female meddling in a man's right to wear whatever he liked on his back.

Slim was conspicuously absent. This was Jess's moment, albeit one which he could probably have done without. Right now he looked as if he had sold out to the opposition – and the color didn't even suit him. Everyone was riveted to the scene, waiting to see whether he would finally tell Amelia her solicitude was misplaced. Not that Jess would put it exactly like that. He'd just have to muster every ounce of tact he possessed and hope she did not break into floods of tears.

Traveller slowed to a halt in front of the newly completed Benson residence. The shutters were closed on the shop window, but horse and rider had scarcely stopped moving before the door flew open.

"Why, Mr. Harper! What a pleasure!"

It is doubtful whether anything could be less of a pleasure for Jess. While he was not averse to shamelessly exploiting the mothering instinct of susceptible females, his independence rebelled against smothering. Beside, good women always caused him to leap into the saddle and head rapidly out of town. He didn't seriously think Mrs. Benson was looking to change her widow's status any time soon, but the doubt lingered that no woman spent so much time making a man shirts if she didn't have _some_ ulterior motive.

Jess slid to the ground and dropped Traveller's reins. He took off his hat. He touched his hand briefly to the butt of his gun, as if it could somehow save him. He straightened his shoulders and advanced on the eager widow. He looked her straight in the eye.

"Mrs. Benson, I'd like to thank y' kindly for all the needlework y've been doin' on my account."

 _So far, so good_. _It was the truth. She was still smiling._

"Think nothing of it, Mr. Harper."

 _Oh yeah!_ _Nothing? When it was turning his life into sartorial hell?_

"I sure appreciate the effort y' makin', ma'am, but I've got to tell you I can't see fit to wear the shirts no more."

 _Uh-huh, this was not going well!_ _A frown had replaced the smile._

"Why, Mr. Harper, they seem to be an excellent fit, if I say so myself."

"It ain't the fit, ma'am. It's the effect."

 _Oh no!_ _That could not be a bottom lip beginning to quiver, could it?_

"But the effect is perfectly charming. You look even more –"

Jess cut in hastily, desiring no compliments and only bent on getting to the end of this harrowing conversation. At least, it was harrowing his nerves, if not hers.

"Ain't the effect on me, Mrs. Benson. It's the effect on the others."

 _Oh hell! There was definitely a tear running down from one of those kindly and admiring eyes._ Jess felt like closing his own and falling to his knees in prayer that the rest of the plan would take effect instantly.

"What others?" The question was accompanied by a distinct sniffle. Jess, of course, had no handkerchief, unlike Slim, who could have produced a clean one without delay. But Slim was in hiding.

"Other men, Mrs. Benson. I don't think y' realize –"

At this point, much to Jess's relief, all hell finally broke loose.

"Harper!" There was a yell from down the street as various buildings disgorged a motley crew of angry cowboys. "You've got a nerve comin' in to town wearin' that shirt!"

"Calm down, boys!" Jess held out his hands as if he could fend off physically the implication that he had been trying to provoke anybody. Fortunately Mrs. Benson did not know him well enough to understand provocation was all too often a Harper mode of operation.

"I ain't intendin' to cause any trouble." Another statement which almost the entire population of Laramie – bar Mrs. Benson – would not believe.

"You're just darn well tryin' to show us up!" This was true because the six men rapidly advancing on Jess were clad in the most dilapidated shirts anyone had seen for a long time – or at any rate, since they had last seen Jess.

"Yeah! Just 'cos y' got someone t' give y' new shirts!" The accusation was accompanied by a lunge which brought the speaker into a grapple with Jess.

"Get off me, Murray!" Jess yelled. "How come y' gettin' all worked up over a simple shirt?"

"It ain't simple, that's why!" Another man grabbed Jess by the arm and there was the sound of splitting fabric.

Mrs. Benson gave a heart-stricken squeak.

"How come you get free shirts when you got a home and Jonesy t' look after you?" someone else demanded, shoving him roughly in the back. The whole group was struggling and swaying now and it was almost impossible to see Jess, surrounded as he was by some angry six-footers.

"How can you object t' me wearin' something a lady's been good enough to give me?" Jess protested in muffled tones as he was grabbed round the throat.

"'Cos it's settin' you above the rest of us!"

"Yeah! We've always worked together like equals!"

"Ain't no call for fancy new shirts when we're workin' together."

"You think y're something else now. Too good for the company of hard-workin' men!"

The scuffle was rapidly becoming an violent struggle. Mrs. Benson was unable to see Jess at all in the whirling mass of bodies and flying fists, but she was certain he was being hurt. All because he had worn her shirt.

"Break it up, boys!" There was the crack of a rifle fired into the air. Mrs. Benson had not noticed the Sheriff bearing down on them, to all outward appearances hell bent on restoring peace and order. At the same time, Slim Sherman came galloping down the street, skidded to a halt, leapt off his horse and flung himself into the crowd.

"Jess! Jess! Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." If it had been a real fight, Slim would be reacting badly to this statement, but fortunately Mrs. Benson didn't know this either.

"I told you not to wear that shirt!" Slim grabbed his ranch hand by the shoulders and gave him a good shaking. Then he turned and fished in his saddle-bag. "Here. Go and put this on. At once!" He waved a plain blue denim shirt under Jess's fortunately undamaged nose.

"Yes. Get out of that shirt, Harper, and stop causing trouble!" the Sheriff ordered. He turned his glare on the rest of the fighters. "I expect to see the whole lot of you in the saloon, buying each other drinks and making your peace, in the next ten minutes! Understood?"

The fighters looked at each other and shrugged sheepishly.

"Is that understood?" the Sheriff bellowed.

"Sure, Mort – yeah, right – goin' now, Mort – c'm on, Jess –" Mumbled declarations of co-operation filled the air. The men shifted uneasily, all the bluster gone out of them. One of them even put an arm round Jess's shoulders.

"Go on!" the Sheriff ordered. "I want to see the back of the lot of you before you cause Mrs. Benson any more distress."

"Sorry, ma'am … Mrs. Benson." Hats were touched and shamed faces turned to the ground as the group apologized _en masse_.

"Get going! Now!"

The men backed away and turned and more or less fled up the street, carrying Jess along with them. Slim hitched Alamo and Traveller to the convenient stump, now carved and shaped into a hitching post. It was all that was left of the fallen tree which had started all this. He offered his arm to Mrs. Benson.

"Come inside, ma'am. I'm sure you need a quiet rest and a cool drink."

"But, Mr. Sherman, I don't understand. What made them so angry with Jess?"

"Well, you see, Mrs. Benson, your shirts are something a man is proud to have, but just giving them to one man laid Jess open to accusations of favoritism." Slim crossed his fingers and hoped she wouldn't decide it was now her mission to clothe the entire male population of Laramie.

"Oh – yes – I see!"

The Sheriff chuckled to himself as he too headed towards the saloon. Inside, predictably, he found a lot of grinning and back-slapping and Jess standing drinks all round as a tribute to the acting skills of his friends. There was even more celebration when Slim joined them shortly afterwards and announced the timely demise of the 'Keep Jess Harper in whole shirts' project.

But before they could return home rejoicing, Jess announced he had one final shirt-related duty to perform. He disappeared outside for a moment and returned with a bulky brown paper parcel, which he dumped on the bar.

"Since you boys were protestin' that you were gettin' left out –"

He pulled out his knife and slit the wrapping. A pile of assorted luridly colored shirts was revealed.

"A little thank you. Help yourselves!"


	2. Chapter 2

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 **Shirt Tale 2**

 **Wolf Brother's Farewell**

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"Parcel for you, Jess."

Joe Staines, the postmaster, fished under the counter and produced an extremely battered-looking parcel. He was reflecting that it matched the man receiving it. Jess Harper showed every sign of a hard month's work driving cattle without the benefit of a bath or a sewing kit. His vest and pants were a kind of muddy grey, his black hat ditto and his shirt looked as though he had been using it to apply axle grease to the chuck wagon. In addition, there was a three-cornered rent in one sleeve.

"Come a long way," Joe ventured. "All the way from Santa Fe, New Mexico."

Jess took the parcel with a brief grin of thanks. He knew better than to answer Joe's inquisitive observation. The man was an inveterate collector of news and would happily spend time Jess did not have to spare prizing information out of him.

"Got family down that way, have you?" Joe inquired genially.

Then he wished he hadn't. Jess's expression became totally blank and his entire body seemed to be charged with restrained violence of the kind Joe had witnessed when the young man was facing a shoot-out. He hoped fervently he was not going to be on the receiving end of Jess's gun. After all, it had only been a simple, friendly question, just common courtesy.

Much to his relief Jess shrugged, tucked the parcel under his arm and departed in the direction of the hotel.

There Slim Sherman had obtained a room and a bath. The only question was who was going to have the bath water first. Actually, it wasn't a question because Slim was already three quarters undressed and, as he pointed out vigorously, no-one on earth would want to use the bath water after Jess had been in it in his present condition!

"Open your parcel," he suggested when Jess began to mutter about the unfairness of life and the evils of hotels which only provided one bath of water per room. "Haven't seen you with a parcel since Christmas. Who's it from?"

Jess squinted at the address, not at all sure it really was for him anyway. "Can't tell. Terrible handwriting!" he observed critically.

"Pot? Kettle?" Slim pointed out, submerging himself in the nice, hot water and enjoying his freedom at last from trail dust and grime.

"Black? That's what y're makin' the water!" Jess protested.

"Jess, just open it, will you! The suspense is killing me!" Actually it was doing nothing of the kind, but Slim wanted to keep Jess occupied and not demanding his share of the bathwater for as long as possible.

"It ain't your parcel," Jess told his now thoroughly soapy partner. "Mind y'own business!"

"You are my business!" Slim reminded him. "I pay your wages and you keep up the reputation of my relay station." This had certainly been the situation in Jess's early days at the relay station and Slim was not above ribbing his partner sometimes about his original 'subordinate' position - for which, it must be recorded, he usually got a good thumping. He blinked through the bubbles and added critically. "At least you do when you're decently dressed. Maybe," the thought of a miracle struck him all at once, "maybe someone's sent you a new shirt. You sure could do with one!"

He went on washing his hair. He thought he couldn't hear anything because he had water in his ears. When he finally rinsed the soap off his head and face, he realized Jess was standing stock-still by the table. He was gazing down at the contents of the parcel. There was a shirt in his hands.

It was deep jade green with white spots.

Scattered white spots, forming sweeping patterns across the green background, like wings beating out a spray of sparkling drops.

 _Huh?_ Slim was momentarily dumbfounded that his prediction had come true. Jess appeared equally awestruck, since he still didn't move or make any comment or attempt to assert his rights to the bath-water before it got completely cold.

Slim reached out and grabbed his towel. He stood up, scattering water everywhere as he shook his head in disbelief. Not just disbelief that Jess had been distracted from his rights to hot bathwater nor disbelief that his own prediction had been fulfilled nor disbelief that his normally volatile partner had not reacted in any way.

He just couldn't believe the power of the shirt itself.

 _A shirt – having power? Was he going crazy?_

Slim hitched the towel round his waist, not for any reasons of modesty, because the good Lord knew Jess had seen him unclothed enough mornings, but in order to have his hands free. He was not quite sure why this was important, but he knew instinctively that it was likely Jess would need some support, possibly some comfort. Whether he would accept this from a dripping wet and virtually naked partner was another matter. Slim didn't even think about it – he just wanted to help Jess.

The Texan continued to stare down at the shirt in his hands. He was utterly still in a way which was completely uncanny in one who was characterized by a fluid, powerful potential for movement even when he wasn't doing anything. This was something quite out of the normal pattern of their lives.

A piece of paper had fluttered to the floor when Jess opened the parcel and took out the shirt. The shock of seeing the contents had driven everything else from his mind. It was not until Slim bent and quietly retrieved the letter, laying it face up on the table, that Jess drew in a shuddering breath and seemed to come back to the everyday world.

"What is it?" Slim whispered, hardly daring to break the silence.

Jess stretched out one lean, tanned hand and smoothed the paper on the table so that they could both read it. With the other he continued to hold the jade shirt as tenderly as if he was holding someone else's heart. Slim turned his head for a moment, looking at Jess's face: the stillness of the carved bone and flesh, the determined line of the jaw, the firm curve of his lips, the wide gaze of the deep blue eyes still focused on the message he had been sent. He seemed to be giving permission for Slim to share it.

Together they read:

 _Wolf Brother,_

 _The one we named 'Cherokee Joe' has heard the last call of his spirit to the long home. He sends his spirit-shirt so that he may share once again the power of brotherhood with you as he makes this last journey. He asks you to wear his shirt until you see his spirit-animal. Then send it on to another brother in the list on the back of this paper. If you are the last, return it to him. So he will be strengthened by the power of our unity._

 _I am writing this at his request, from the San Miguel Chapel in Santa Fe, where he is in the care of the De LaSalle Christian Brothers._

' _Cut one, we all bleed!'_

 _Cal_

 _PS If you can get your photograph taken in this, I know it will be an extra blessing for him._

Slim did not need to ask any questions. He knew the power of the Ranulfiar brotherhood to which Jess had belonged during the war. He himself still had to come to terms with the implications of this allegiance and Jess's deep and close connection with his cousin, Callum Harper, but it was an integral part of who Jess was – a person in whom Slim had utter trust and to whom he gave utter loyalty. He knew that the very same trust and loyalty which Jess brought to their friendship and their partnership had been learnt through the experiences he had shared with the Ranulfiar in the war which should have divided the two of them. There was no point in being jealous. And, somewhere in the back of his own experiences, there was the admiring recollection of an enemy band whom his own comrades had named 'the Wolf Pack' …

But he did not take time to consider his own thoughts and feelings for longer than a passing second. The important thing now was what Jess had been asked to do and the support he would need when he undertook this task.

"Stay here!" Slim pushed a still silent Jess into the room's armchair. Jess continued to hold the shirt as if it was some precious talisman which would suddenly dissolve and vanish if he loosened his fingers for a moment. He seemed, most uncharacteristically, to be willing to let Slim give the orders.

Slim hastily towelled himself and shrugged on his clothes. Then he left the room, only to return in what seemed like no time at all. This was something of a miracle, as he was accompanied by a number of the hotel staff, who emptied the bath and refilled it with clean, hot water.

"You need to wash." Slim shook Jess much more gently than he was wont to do. "Come on. You need to be really clean before you put on that shirt." He could not account for why he thought this. It certainly wasn't about sharing the shirt with others. He was just subconsciously convinced there was a proper ritual approach to such things.

Jess looked up at him, his blue eyes suddenly focusing with a piercing intensity.

"Yeah." He stood up and laid the shirt carefully over the back of the armchair. The rest of his clothes fell to the floor in the usual crumpled heap.

"Get in," Slim ordered softly. He could see he was going to have to take charge of the bathing, at least for a little while.

"Yeah." Jess stepped into the warm water and sank down, but made no attempt to wash.

"Come on," Slim ordered again, handing his partner the soap and a flannel. "Wash!"

"Oh, yeah." Jess looked at the soap in confusion but, after a few hesitant moments, obediently began to apply it to his body.

"That's better!" Slim picked up the water ewer from the nightstand and used it to drench the now soapy Texan until he was thoroughly rinsed. "Now your hair!"

Jess, already with water dripping in his eyes, did not seem to see the point of this. In concerned exasperation, Slim seized the soap from his hand and proceeded to apply it to the thick thatch of dark hair, which was matted with sweat and dust. It took several minutes of vigorous massage before he was convinced he had washed out all traces of the cattle drive. He doused an unprotesting Jess with more water until all traces of soap and dirt had gone from his hair and body.

"Out!" He stood waiting, with a clean towel ready for Jess to dry himself on.

A little while later, they both stood looking at the jade green shirt. Jess was clothed from the waist down, including his gun-belt.

"Put it on!"

"Yeah."

 **ooooo**

If anyone had told Slim that a man could safely walk through the streets of Laramie wearing a spotted shirt, he would have been dumbfounded. At the least it was to invite ridicule, which Jess was not going to react well to; at the worst it might result in some fool getting killed for taking Jess at the face-value of the pretty shirt. It was, therefore, with considerable apprehension that he followed his partner out of the hotel. This despite having been the one to urge him to put on the shirt. Not that Jess would have taken the slightest notice if he had vigorously forbidden it or tried to stop him!

"Better pick up another box of cartridges," Jess said in a perfectly normal voice.

"Yeah, good idea," Slim agreed cautiously, even though he had some misgivings about this suggestion.

"And then I need a darned good meal of something which ain't beef jerky!" Jess seemed to be reverting to his usual pattern of behavior, as if the shirt made no difference at all. "And after that, a strong drink t'wish Joe God-speed."

"Ok." Slim followed him down the street to the General Store and the unwelcome scrutiny of the band of old men who frequented its porch. Jess strolled along looking totally relaxed, not moving at the alert stalk which he usually employed when expecting trouble. In fact, he certainly didn't seem to be expecting trouble because, when he was, he almost always kept a pace behind Slim, watching his back.

Today Slim was watching Jess's back as well as trying to undertake his usual role in their fighting partnership of dealing with whatever trouble was coming up front. He didn't expect much from a bunch of old men, but you never knew: they all had tongues in their heads too. It was impossible to get into the Store without running the gauntlet of those shrewd and rheumy old eyes.

"Morning!" Jess greeted the assembled company with a smile.

"Jess – Slim – mornin' – goodday t'you – howdy –" Various greetings were mumbled, barked or croaked, according to the age of the speaker, but none of them were hostile.

They went inside. Frank Kramer, the proprietor, gave one look at them, at Jess really, and gulped in surprise. When Jess asked for cartridges, he made none of the usual cheerful conversation they had come to expect, but, to their surprise, disappeared out to the storeroom without another word.

Presently he came back with an unopened box of cartridges. Resting on it was a single iridescent feather, its shining colour between turquoise and jade. He laid the box on the counter between them and lifted his eyes to survey Jess again.

"Take these." He tapped the box and gave it a slight push towards his waiting customers. The little feather lifted momentarily, probably disturbed by the movement, but it looked as if it had a life of its own. The dim atmosphere of the store seemed to be lit by a flash of bright wings.

Slim pulled himself together with some difficulty. "Put them on our account, will you, please, Frank?"

The store-keeper shook his head. "No need, Slim."

"But –"

"No need," Frank assured them again. He stretched tentative fingers towards the bright feather and looked up to meet Jess's eyes.

Jess nodded.

Frank picked up the feather delicately, gently, as if it might break at any moment. On the shelf behind him there was an empty glass jar. He set the feather carefully in it and his face glowed with some kind of reflected light, before he turned to them with a broad smile. "Take the ammunition. I know you ain't goin' to do anything dishonorable with it. It's a gift."

Jess nodded again, seemingly unperturbed by this strange transaction. "Thanks, Frank. It's a blessing to y'."

He picked up the box and led a dazed Slim out of the store. As they came through the door, there was a rustle of movement. Every single old man, whatever the effort cost him, stood up to see them pass. As they did so, someone murmured: "Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it."

At the bottom of the steps Jess turned and raised his open hand towards them in a salute and a farewell.

Their next destination was the café, where the sudden advent of Jess Harper was bound to throw the kitchen into a turmoil. Not because he was a demanding customer – just one whom it was next to impossible to fill! Slim was ready to take the initiative and procure the victuals which would keep his partner functioning, but this proved unnecessary. No sooner had they taken their seats than Louisa, who helped out with serving the customers, stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of Jess.

 _Didn't realize the shirt was that awe-inspiring!_ Slim thought to himself, but got no further because the girl turned without greeting them or taking their order and headed straight back into the kitchen.

"Guess she's gone for extra supplies with you sitting down in here!" Slim ventured jokingly.

Jess just smiled slightly and shook his head.

Moments later, Xiang Hong, the chef and owner of the place, came to their table and bowed politely. Contrary to his usual practice, he addressed only Jess. "Today, fresh salmon. This is agreeable to you?"

"Thank you," Jess responded quietly. "It is agreeable."

Xiang gave another bow and returned to his kitchen without further ado. Slim stared at his partner in perplexity. He knew Jess could act 'formal' when he had to, but he had never heard him do so in the local café. They sat in silence for a few more minutes and then, to Slim's utter surprise, Xiang himself came and began to set their table.

This was totally unheard of. And even more surprising was the way he laid out matching knives and forks and fine bone china. Accustomed as they were to the rather odd way in which milk might or might not arrive in a tureen and bowls sometimes appeared instead of cups, this level of careful formality was a shock.

"Thank you." Jess gave the chef a bow of his own.

"It is fitting." And, with no more words, the man went back to his kitchen again.

"What's got into him?" Slim wondered aloud. "He's never done that before." He reckoned it was a good job the café was otherwise empty or this preferential treatment might stir up unwanted trouble.

Jess gave him a sympathetic look, but attempted no explanation except to say: "Always a first time for everything." He pushed his chair back a little and stretched mightily. "Damn glad to sit in a seat instead of a saddle for a bit!"

The shirt caught the sunlight from the window as Jess moved. The white of the spots was so bright it made Slim blink. And no sooner had he done so than Xiang was setting their meal before them, again on his finest china plates.

The meal was hot, despite the impossibly short time there had been to prepare it. It was savory in a way that only fresh food can be to men who've been living off jerky. It was satisfying, not just because there was plenty, but because there seemed to be some special quality in the food which went beyond anything they had ever tasted before.

At the end of the meal, when they had pushed aside their plates and drunk their coffee, Xiang came back and bowed again. "It was fitting?"

"Very fitting," Jess responded at once.

"Excellent, thank you." Slim reached for his wallet, but was stopped by a raised hand.

"Not necessary."

"But we –"

Xiang smiled at them, a rare expression on his usually inscrutable features. "The hunter provided."

"Thank you, Xiang, for your hospitality," Jess responded and then said again, "It's a blessing to you."

Xiang gave another polite bow. "My name," he told them, "means _flying river_." And with this obscure piece of information he disappeared into his kitchen once more, leaving Louisa to clear the dishes.

"Come on." Jess got to his feet and headed for the door. "Let's see if that photographer's still at the newspaper office."

The photographer was still there. He had been doing some portraits of lawmen for an article in the _Niles Register._ He took one look at Jess in the spotted shirt and breathed: "Ye –e-sss!"

"It's a personal picture," Jess informed him firmly. "I ain't given y' permission to use it, but if you want the story, you can follow it up in Santa Fe."

"Ok, if you say so!" the photographer affirmed. "You're not the only one involved, then?"

"No." Jess's expression did not suggest he was willing to give any more details. "And some won't thank you for investigatin'. Go t' Santa Fe if you're serious about the story."

The photographer nodded his acceptance. He looked around the office and said decisively: "Can't do this here. Where's the nearest waterfall?"

"What?" Slim was shocked out of his supportive role.

"Miles away!" Jess affirmed. "How about the town pond?"

The photographer glared at him. "You know it's got to be running water!"

They ended up riding out of town into the foothills until they came to a suitable, active stream. The photographer was adamant that Jess stand right on the edge, in order to get the rippling water in the background. How this would turn out, given the length of exposure, was anyone's guess, but, apparently, nothing else would do.

It was early evening when they got back to town and the photographer dismissed them with a professional wave: "I'll deliver the print as soon as it's ready."

"Ok, thanks," Jess agreed. "We'll be in the saloon." Then he added, inevitably: "It's a blessing for y'."

"Too right," the enthusiastic photographer agreed. "This could make my name."

"Yeah, maybe …" Jess looked amused and Slim looked skeptical. They headed for the saloon.

This was the moment, above all others, which Slim had been dreading. Jess was obviously dedicated to wearing the shirt in token of his brotherhood with the unknown Joe, who was dying in Santa Fe. That was difficult enough to process. But he seemed to take no account at all of how the average cowboy in Laramie would view another one wearing a fancy-patterned, spotted shirt. This was hard to believe, because Jess knew his neighbors and had just worked a cattle drive with some of those who'd be in the saloon tonight. Yet he was behaving as if it was entirely natural that he would be strolling through Laramie wearing a shirt which laid him open to jibes of the worst possible kind.

A blast of warmth and light and the combined smells of tobacco, beer and lamp-oil hit them the moment they walked through the bat-wing doors. It was so familiar, yet the whole situation seemed utterly strange to Slim, not least the reaction of everyone to Jess.

As they fetched up at the bar, Slim assumed his accustomed position, a little behind Jess's shoulder, signalling unmistakably that to mess with Jess was to encounter his wrath too. He was entirely focused on keeping anyone from trying to beat Jess up on account of the shirt.

Right away, Freddie was in front of them, an open bottle in his hand.

"Brandy tonight?"

"Yeah, thanks, Freddie. Cherokee Joe was always partial to a slug o' brandy, especially if he'd just lifted it from a Yankee mess wagon!"

By rights, this ought to have made Freddie put the bottle right back on the shelf, but instead he reached over and patted Jess on the shoulder, before pouring two glasses of the glowing amber liquid. By rights most of the men in the saloon – very many of whom had fought for the Union – should have had their hackles risen and their hands on their weapons at this reminder of how the Rebs had plundered their supplies.

No such thing happened. Instead, Jess picked up the brandy bottle and looked round the saloon. "Any of you care to join me? Joe's a man worth drinkin' to."

Behind them, Freddie rattled more glasses on to the bar. Jess glanced over his shoulder and smiled. "Thanks, Freddie." He looked round the assembled company again and saw accepting nods from almost everyone there. He turned back to the bar and began carefully to fill the glasses. When the bottle was empty, Freddie uncorked another one and handed it to Jess without a word.

Slim reached automatically for his wallet: Jess's debts were his debts, at least as far as money was concerned.

Freddie shook his head. "On the house, Slim, on the house!"

Jess smiled at him. "It's a blessing to y', Freddie."

The doors rattled again and Mort Cory barreled into the bar, every inch of his hard-honed body radiating that he expected serious trouble. The Sheriff took one sweeping glance round the saloon and let the rifle he had at the ready drop to his side.

"Evening, boys, Freddie," he murmured, his tone revealing nothing of the impetus which must have driven him in there. His shrewd glance took in the whole of the bar and the glasses of brandy in front of every man.

Jess tipped the bottle again and pushed a full glass in the Sheriff's direction. "I know y' don't make a habit of drinkin' on duty, Mort, but we're markin' the going of a good man."

Mort's fingers reached out and grasped the glass. "I'd be honored to join you, Jess."

A little silence fell on the saloon. Just for that moment, men held the amber liquid without drinking and remembered – remembered not only this man, a stranger to them although he was a brother to their neighbor, but the men they had known personally, riding to war, never to return …

Jess lifted his glass and said: "They are not dead who live in the hearts they leave behind!"

He drank and everyone drained their glass with him. And, as they did so, perhaps only Slim noticed the flashes of gold and turquoise and jade and white which seemed to be spun into the air from the emptying glasses like the flicker of spirit-wings.

And then it was business as usual: talk, cards, the rattle of dice, the clink of glasses. Nothing more, but still something precious, as if they had renewed a covenant of fellowship and support amongst them.

 **ooooo**

The next morning, Slim and Jess were on the road early. They were eager for home and to see Andy, Mike and Jonesy again. It felt as if they had been away for much longer than month.

There was nothing to delay their departure. The photographer had duly delivered the print. Jess had purchased an envelope for it and paid express delivery to Cal in Santa Fe. At the same time, he had bought wrappings to send the shirt on to the next of his Wolf-pack brothers. But not yet. Not until the sign came that he should do so.

They rode gently out of respect for all the hard work their horses had done over the last month. For the same reason they took the upper road which was easier on the horses and quicker to ride because there was less damage from the wheels of freight and stage traffic. Eventually they came back to the main road and the ford over the river just below the relay station. Normally they would have cantered through in a cloud of spray, only slowing their horses over the last half mile to home so that they would not arrive in a sweat.

Today was different.

As they approached the gleaming stretch of water, Jess slowed Smoke and Traveller to a walk. He turned aside from the road, into the soft morning shadows under the waterside trees, and halted. Slim quietly followed him. Something told him to make less than no noise, if he could, as he drew his own pair to a standstill.

Jess slid soundlessly from his saddle and dropped the reins of both horses. Even they did not give a relaxing snort or shiver, just stood totally still where their rider had left them. Jess moved away from them all across the grass with no more noise than a breath of wind.

With the dappled sunlight under the trees and the rippled beams reflecting from the water, the jade green shirt and its filigree pattern of white spots blended in perfectly. Jess came to the stony edge of the river and knelt slowly. Everything – men, horses, leaves, grass – became utterly still. The only movement was the dancing water.

Skimming across the crystal stream there was a flash of turquoise and gold and jade and white. The kingfisher dived like a thrown knife. They saw it pierce the current and spear a single silver trout. In an instant it shot back into the air in a flurry of flying water. It dipped and turned, winging its way across the surface to land in an iridescent flash of colour on the grey stones where Jess was kneeling.

It dropped the fish in front of him. Then it vanished too swiftly for the eye to see.

Nothing else moved.

Presently Jess slowly pulled the spirit-shirt over his head. He folded it carefully and laid it on the grass. After this, he retrieved his own shirt from his saddle-bag and put it on. He took the wrappings he had prepared and parcelled up Cherokee Joe's shirt. Finally he picked up the silver trout and the parcel and walked back to the horses, where Slim sat, transfixed and waiting.

Jess looked up and grinned. "The hunter provided breakfast. Let's go home and eat it!"

.

* * *

.

Notes:

Most often, Kingfisher appears in traditional Native American stories as a proficient hunter, whose success cannot be duplicated by careless imitators.

 _Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it._ Ecclesiastes 12:7

 _They are not dead who live in the hearts they leave behind_. Tuscarora saying.

Xiang (flying, soaring) Hong or Hung (flood, water)

Other stories involving the Ranulfiar brotherhood include: _Encounters at Dusk_ and _Fortress of Darkened Stars._


	3. Chapter 3

.

.

.

 **Shirt Tale 3**

 **Spots Before the Eyes**

(another little homage to the late Terry Pratchett)

.

\- _xX -_ The parcel has been delivered _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ Has the **SE** ntient **L** ife **F** orm processed it correctly _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ Processing is proceeding but the SELF appears to be functioning slowly and with some impairment of efficiency _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ Continue to monitor and report on conclusion of activity _\- Yy_ –

 **ooooo**

Late at night after an enjoyable, if expensive, evening in the saloon was not the time to begin domestic tasks. Jess Harper ripped off the wrapping of the strange parcel bearing his name, glanced at the object thus revealed and tossed it into the open drawer containing the rest of his shirts. Domestic tasks were never his forte anyway.

"Someone send you a present?" Slim Sherman inquired sleepily from his bed.

"No idea." Jess dismissed the parcel and its contents from his mind. He needed all his concentration to climb, or rather scramble, into the top bunk.

"You could sleep on the bottom one," Slim pointed out, watching his friend's rather ungainly efforts at bed-mountaineering.

"Thinkin' of Jonesy landin' on top of me in the middle of the night?" Jess shuddered. "Wouldn't sleep a wink!"

"Jonesy's...zzz...in...nnnah –" Slim heaved an almighty yawn and gave up. His eyes closed thankfully and he put his head under the pillow in order to avoid being disturbed should Jess descend heavily to the floor again. At the moment, this seemed quite likely.

"Y' could give me a leg up!" Jess grumbled. He considered getting back down and kicking Slim into action, but it didn't seem worth it. He was more than half way up.

"You have...n …nn…t gorra…a…a leg to –" The rest of the sentence was lost in a gentle snore.

Jess scowled down from the lofty altitude he had finally obtained, but decided revenge wasn't worth making the same effort twice. His eyes closed thankfully too. It was not until later in the night he discovered painfully that he had not removed his gun-belt.

 **ooooo**

\- _yY -_ Continued monitoring has been requested _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ SELF currently inactive with consequent inoperable data transmission _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ SELF does not yet have sensors in position _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ Affirmative while current inaction continues _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ Previous observations suggest activity at the stage of the diurnal cycle _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ Affirm previous data correct and malfunction of SELF in question suggested _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ Malfunction had better not be an option given the time distance currency equation pertaining to this part of the experiment _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ Accountancy is the ultimate invariable _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ Reprogram linguistic function to delete snide side-sliding intended to avoid consequences of failure _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ Monitored SELF is becoming active ….. possibly _\- Xx_ –

 **ooooo**

Breakfast at the Sherman Relay Station was rarely the scene of animated conversation in eager encounter with the new day. Not until the coffee pot was pretty well empty, anyway. Still less so after a hard night's drinking. Slim was blaming himself for not getting to bed at a decent hour when he had a full day's work ahead of him and was also nursing a thick head, for which Jess was entirely to blame.

The bunk-room door opened and Jess shambled out with his eyes closed and his clothes half dragged on. The door closed slowly with a groan which both men probably felt like echoing. Jess made his way over to the table by some kind of instinct or more probably lured by the scent of coffee. Slim was tempted to make him pour his own, but relented on account of the mess Jess would make doing it with his eyes closed.

"Here!" He thrust the mug of thick, inky liquid into the younger man's hand.

Jess made an indeterminate noise which might have betokened thanks or alternatively extreme pain. He drained the mug at lightning speed and held it out again hopefully.

Slim hardened his heart to this pathetic appeal. "Head! Pump! Now!"

"U-u-rr-ggh!" Jess's protest fell on stony ground and was met with the further injunction: "And take your shirt off first."

The shirt landed on the back of a chair with uncanny accuracy, the front door grated on its hinges and there was the sound of vigorous pumping accompanied by a startled yelp. Slim grinned rather more devilishly than was his wont. _Just occasionally it was nice to see Jess getting his come-uppance!_ Slim nevertheless poured them each another mug of coffee and settled back in his chair to see how much breakfast Jess was capable of consuming today.

As he gazed along the table, Jess's shirt was directly in front of him. Slim blinked. The spots swam slightly in his vision and then seemed to solidify alarmingly. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and immediately wished he hadn't. _He'd never been so hung over that he was seeing spots before the eyes. What on earth had he drunk last night_?

These musings were interrupted as Jess stumbled back in, looking very marginally more awake. At least his eyes were two bright blue slits even if his expression did suggest he was still asleep in bed. He was dripping.

"Towel!" Slim directed impatiently.

Jess ignored this and proceeded to rub himself down with his shirt, after which he tossed it out onto the porch, sat down and grabbed the second mug of coffee.

"You know Jonesy's rule about dressing for meals!" Slim reminded him sternly.

"Ain't eatin' a meal. 'M just drinkin' coffee," Jess protested.

"Shirt!" Slim pointed dramatically to the bunk-room door and, for good measure, took possession of the coffee pot, which he held well out of Jess's reach. He knew that the concentration on coffee would soon be superseded by the ravenous Harper appetite.

"The hell are you gettin' particular all of a sudden!" Jess grumbled incoherently. But he went and put on a second shirt.

"Seeing you at breakfast is bad enough," Slim told him when they were both seated, fully clad, once more. "You without a shirt and sporting a hangover is too much for anyone to put up with!"

 **ooooo**

\- _xX -_ SELF is now animated _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ Marginally less stationary would be a more accurate description _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ The other SELF appears to be less dormant and more upright which would facilitate clear visual transmission if only this one were designated for equipment migration _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ Neither SELF is entirely stable and upright which suggests the introduction of distilled liquid consumption into the process of installing sensors may have been an error _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ You can reiterate your parameters on that _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ You were ordered to delete random snide sarcasm from your linguistic interface _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ SELF is increasing in activity but detached from visual monitors _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ Have sufficient mediums with monitoring properties been replicated inside the storage receptacle _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ Affirmative and it looks as if we are going to need them _\- Xx_ –

 _Short pause_

\- _yY -_ WHAT is SELF doing to the monitor-carrying medium _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ Wrecking it ….. probably _\- Xx_ –

 **oooo**

As was usual in any establishment dependent on horse power, one of the first tasks every morning, after feeding, was to muck out the stalls. Slim and Jess slumped across to the barn. In their present state, bending over a dirty pile of straw on the end of a pitchfork held few attractions.

"Come on!" Jess said unexpectedly. "Let's get at it. Maybe we'll work the whiskey out of our systems with a bit of sweat and shovellin'."

Slim's eyebrows shot up and nearly disappeared into the tow-colored forelock falling over his brow. His mouth opened and shut a couple of times, but no words came out. He seriously suspected that Jess was still really drunk, if he was capable of making such a suggestion.

"Come on!" Jess brandished a pitchfork at him in no uncertain manner.

Slim took it dumbly. They bent their backs to the task.

It was close in the barn and warmed not just by the labor of the humans but by the surrounding horse-flesh. Presently Jess stopped and pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it into the corner of Traveller's stall. The horse gave him a pained look, then nosed the shirt to see if it was edible. Slim felt a modicum of relief: he was still seeing lime green spots on Jess's brown shirt and glad he didn't have to look at it any more.

They pitched and raked and shovelled and brushed and ended by damping down the central aisle with buckets of water to lay the dust. Meanwhile, Traveller nudged the shirt and huffed into it. He did not consider it a proper substitute for an armful of hay.

 **ooooo**

\- _xX -_ SELF is increasing in activity _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ Activity appears to be directed to the rearrangement of the surrounding environment _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ Do you wish to increase the range of data collection _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ What options are available _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ Heat light odor sensors but sound is screwed _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ I presume you mean unscrewed _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ Whatever because it ain't workin' _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ Delete colloquial vocabulary from linguistic interface NOW _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ That ain't …. is not going to make the sound sensors work _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ It will relieve mine so turn on the rest _\- Yy_ –

 _Another brief pause_

\- _yY -_ A-a-a-a-r-r-r-r-g-g-g-g-h-h-h-h Turn it off at once _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ You mean the odour sensor _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ Yes the odor sensor which is filling our research vessel with that terrible stench _\- Yy_ –

 _A further pause_

\- _yY -_ How do they live with it _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ I think their environment smells natural to them _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ No wonder they have not progressed very far up the evolutionary chain _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ We have a problem on the visual monitor feedback too _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ WHAT is that repulsive-looking thing slobbering over our monitors _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ A Lower Life Form which I believe is referred to as a horse _\- Xx_ –

 **ooooo**

The mucking out once completed, the next item on the work list was preparing for the morning stage from Laramie. Jess retrieved his shirt from Traveller's stall. It was irredeemably crumpled and covered with hay and horse-slobber.

Slim regarded it with distaste. "I never did like spotted shirts. Could you possibly put that one in the wash and find something less garish?"

"Spotted?" Jess looked puzzled but he didn't have the energy for a fight with Slim over the issue. "Alright, if y' so fussy, I'll get another."

"Good!" Slim was, of course, supremely unaware that he was expressing the sentiments of two remote observers orbiting the planet at a distance of some five hundred miles above its surface.

Jess reappeared from the bunk-room presently, clad in a modest grey denim work-shirt which was restrained enough even for a partner viewing him through the throbbing eyes occasioned by a considerable amount of alcohol. But Slim blinked. You did not get grey denim with pale violet spots. He was beginning to wonder if he had been in a fight the previous evening and hit on the head and not noticed.

The stage duly rolled in with clouds of dust and debris from the surrounding vegetation: it had been very dry over the last few weeks and everything was parched almost to extinction. There was no-one on board and once the team change had been completed, the stage duly rolled out. Slim and Jess were left to enjoy the sobering effects of the remainder of the coffee they had prepared for the passengers. In order to do this, they decided to sit out on the porch. It wasn't as shady as the house but at least it would catch whatever breeze there was. If they hadn't been feeling so tired, the partners might have opted for a cool swim.

As it was, Jess was in for a cool shower-bath. It was too much to hope that Napoleon, the mighty mallard (mighty in personality, if not actual size) and ruler supreme of the relay station yard (except when challenged by the ranch cat) would mind his own business and stay on his pond. But no! No sooner had Jess relapsed into a peaceful stupor in one of the rocking chairs than a delighted and very wet feather bundle zoomed down and landed neatly in his lap.

It might have seemed impossible that one little duck could spread so much water about his vicinity. Impossible to anyone who had not met Napoleon. Jess just grinned because he was used to being soaked by Napoleon and took the gesture in good part as a sign of affection.

Slim, on the other hand, regarded the pair of them with an eye still jaundiced by the previous night's revels.

"You. Duck. Shirt." Slim reverted to a weary shorthand to convey how little he wanted to go on working with Jess in a wet, duck-smelling shirt ... with spots.

"Ok." Jess stripped off this shirt too and dropped it to the floor for Napoleon to nest on while they got on with whatever was next on the list. "There y' go, little fella. Make y'self comfortable."

Napoleon did just that, but not before he had put an unmistakable seal of ownership on Jess's once pristine shirt.

 **ooooo**

\- _xX -_ SELF appears to be without the monitors again _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ Monitors continue to function with some data still accessible _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ There is another lower life form in the vicinity _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ In respect of size this cannot be designated a life form at all _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ Well it is registering on our sensors _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ Analyse data acquired _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ Activating transmission _\- Xx_ –

 _Several seconds of non-linear illogical chaos accompanied by desperate injunctions to TURN IT OFF_

\- _yY -_ WHAT is that disgusting sticky smelly substance doing to our sensors - _Yy -_

\- _xX -_ E-e-e-r ….. wrecking them …. probably _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ Who would have predicted that a negligible life form not even worthy of capitalising could produce so much of a substance so destructive _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ It is called a duck _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ They give identification labels to such insignificant entities _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ Yes it is a duck _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ And I suppose you are going to inform me next that the substance has been given identification by them too _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ The technical term is guano _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ No wonder this planet is in need of serious remedial reprogramming _\- Yy_ –

 **ooooo**

The blue shirt with red spots was infinitely worse than the grey one with violet dots. Slim splashed his aching head with cold water, but the spots did not go away. Jess seemed completely impervious to their effect and to Slim's suffering. The spots, however, did contribute to Slim's ultimate rescue from a severe trampling, only a short while later in the afternoon.

When another stage had gone through without incident and the main heat of the day had passed, they saddled up and rode out to check the stock and the fences. The herd was restless and irritable in the hot afternoon and resented being disturbed by horsemen. A section of the wire was down too, at the head of a tricky little ravine. Once they had driven the uncooperative cattle back to the right side, they dismounted in order to fix it.

The earth was dry and friable. So much so that a chunk at the edge of the gully collapsed completely under Slim's feet, causing him to tumble and roll down into the hollow below. Unfortunately he rolled right into the path of a particularly belligerent bull, who took exception to human beings flinging themselves in front of him. Winded and dazed by the impact of this fall, Slim's reactions were much slower than might be expected, given his knowledge and experience of cattle.

The bull bellowed, pawing up divots of earth and clouds of dust and clearly ready to charge. Someone else was fortunately ready to charge too. Jess took in the situation with a lightning glance and darted between the animal and his fallen partner, yelling and waving his arms. The red spots on his shirt were bright and luminous, seeming to highlight his every movement. He succeeded in distracting the animal easily.

It was not so easy to escape! A bull can run a lot faster than a man. But cattle can't climb trees. Jess raced over to the nearest one and leapt into the branches. The enraged animal skidded to a halt below him, bellowing and thumping the trunk with its horns. The futility of this seemed to madden the creature even further. It suddenly backed away, seeking an easier target for its wrath.

"Run, Slim!" Jess bellowed in tones equal to the bull's. Then he gave the piercing whistle which Traveller knew was an emergency summons.

Jess swung down from the tree into the saddle. He urged Traveller after the bull, pulling the shirt off over his head as he did so. They skimmed between Slim and his pursuer, Jess whirling the red-spotted shirt in the bull's face in the time-honored tradition of the matadors. The animal swerved after the infuriating flapping material. Slim raced back to Alamo and vaulted into the saddle, sending his faithful mount into a full gallop over the pasture in pursuit of his flying partner.

Horse and rider were leading the bull a merry dance around the flatter land below the gully. Slim and Alamo cut across its tracks and diverted its attention momentarily, giving the other two a breather. But not for long. The flailing spotted shirt was a much more infuriating target and the bull soon returned to pursuing it. Figuring it might leave them alone if it got to gore the shirt, Jess slowed Traveller and leaned perilously out from the saddle in order to fling the shirt in the creature's face. The material round its head blinded it for a few minutes, enabling both horsemen make their getaway. The enraged bull tossed the red spotted shirt high into the air and, when it fell back, proceeded to gouge it to destruction on the ground.

Slim and Jess made the most of this respite and high-tailed it for home.

 **ooooo**

\- _yY -_ Update prevailing data and conditions _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ Rapid transportation of SELF makes sensors unstable _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ Nonsense those sensors made it through hyperspace so no transportation system on this backward planet could affect them like that _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ Have you tried riding an LLF at a gallop _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ Have you _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ I have previously studied the SELF doing so _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ Now you will please elucidate why the SELF is once more detached from the monitors and _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ Great galloping galaxies what is that SELF doing now _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ You are the expert and delete all SELF swearing expressions from the linguistic interface RIGHT NOW _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ Data suggests interaction with an ELLLF _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ You are confusing your planets as elves inhabit Chelonia 9 _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ This **E** xtremely **L** arge **L** ower **L** ife **F** orm is called a bull and is capable of doing an extremely large amount of damage to our sensors _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ So the data suggests _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ I said all along we should have attached them to the waist appendage which is not removed instead of the body covering _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ That appendage has insufficient surface area as you well know _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ At least it seems to stay put on the body _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ So go and attach some microdots to it _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ Are you kidding when his hand is so close to it all the time _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ That was an order _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ You are suffering from primary logic malfunction in suggesting that anyone interferes with a gunslinger's gun _\- Xx_ –

 **ooooo**

Slim and Jess made it back to the ranch, hot and dusty and out of breath. They decided the quickest way to cool down was a dip in the river. Jess did not, at this stage, find himself yet another shirt from the seemingly endless supply in his drawer, which neither of them had so far remarked on. It was still the working day and they had better things to do than count shirts. Their progress to the water, however, was leisurely, as the horses needed to cool down before being rewarded with a paddle.

It was, therefore, some time later that peace and quiet finally descended on the relay station. The evening chores were finished and everything, including the humans – and one especially ravenous human in particular – had been fed. The smell of coffee drifted through the soft twilight air. The last faint murmurings of the birds were a soothing lullaby, interrupted only by some determined quacking as Napoleon urged his wives and progeny into the safety of the duck-house. Presently the little mallard flew up to the house and let Jess know that the resident _Anas platyrhynchos_ were ready to turn in for the night.

Jess obediently disappeared to lock the door for them and Slim was immediately consumed by guilt because he felt so much better when the Texan had gone. It was Jess's shirt – again! Nothing could be more soothing than the soft pale blue fabric – if only it didn't have violent orange spots, like some kind of minute and malevolent fungus, glowing all over it! Slim's head was thumping and his eyes felt positively sore with the reaction to a day spent staring at myriad spots.

By the time Jess got back, his partner had come to a decision. "Jess, I want you to do something for me."

"Aw, come on, Slim! I've worked just as hard as you all day!"

"It's not work and it's not hard."

"So why'm I doin' it for you?"

"Because I can't stand it any longer! Go and change your shirt!"

Jess stared at him as if he had gone completely mad. Slim felt that one more look at the terrible clashing color of those spots and he would!

Jess made no move to obey. Slim decided unwisely to appeal to logic.

"You know I never ask you to do anything unless it's really necessary!"

"Yeah, you do!"

"I do?"

"Yeah. Every morning y'make me get out of bed and that really ain't necessary!"

Slim gave a yell of fury and threw logic to the winds. He attempted to grab Jess and remove the offending shirt himself.

Jess stumbled backwards down the porch steps, recovered his balance and tore away across the yard. Slim raced after him, both his desperation and his longer legs making him the winner of the race just as they came level with the water-trough.

"I may make you get up but I sure as hell can't get you into the shower of a morning!" Slim complained, wrestling his sparring partner perilously close to the water.

"Guess I'm just naturally pure!" Jess quipped.

"Oh yeah? We'll see about that!"

Seconds later there was an almighty splash as Slim succeeded in ducking Jess in the trough. Instantly a brilliant orange light flared so brightly that they both yelled out in surprise. Jess came up dripping and coughing and cursing, because yelling under water is not to be recommended. But the sight of Slim's ecstatically happy face drove all thoughts of revenge from his mind.

His partner beamed from ear to ear and slapped him on the back of the wet plain blue shirt.

"Those damn spots have finally gone!"

 **ooooo**

\- _xX -_ That's torn it _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ Delete inaccurate human metaphors from the linguistic interface or the mission will be compromised _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ Compromised is putting it mildly when that last piece of SELF action shorted out the entire circuit and the data base _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ Re-compute and find a solution _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ There is no solution because this was the only SELF designated for equipment migration _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ And there is no equipment left to migrate back _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ Accountancy is the ultimate invariable _\- Xx_ –

\- _yY -_ In which case you can account to them for the loss of so many sensors _\- Yy_ –

\- _xX -_ I'm just the roadie and it is your show so the code is entirely in your programming parameters _\- Xx_ –

 _A very long pause_

\- _yY -_ Let's find another planet …. just the two of us …. somewhere nice and quiet …. _\- Yy_ –

 _A shift of light and a reverberation of hyper-time-and-space, in which some words in distinctly plaintive tones could be distinguished:_

\- _xX_ \- _yY -_ Men, horses, bulls, ducks, shirts, guns …. there must be an easier planet to invade ….. _\- Xx_ – _Yy_

 _._

* * *

.

Notes

Napoleon the mallard first appears in ' _Duck Rustler'._


	4. Chapter 4

.

.

.

 **Shirt Tale 4**

 **A Day with a Duck**

.

"That's my parcel you're sittin' on!"

Jess Harper's bright blue eyes narrowed with potential menace. Bright black button eyes twinkled back at him.

There was a chuckling sound. Or it might have been a quack.

"Come on, Napoleon. Down off my chair!" Jess commanded hopefully. "And off my parcel!" he added for good measure.

There was a moment's stand-off, but Napoleon, like another one close to Jess's heart, could identify the tone that meant he really meant it. The duck jumped down with a deprecatory quack which said " _Who, me? Defy you_?"

Jess was not fooled but he didn't have a lot of time today for battles of will with small mallards. They were liable to be prolonged! It was hard work running the relay station on his own. Hard work and, if he was honest, lonely. He missed Slim and Andy and Mike and Jonesy more than he was ever going to admit out loud.

So he found himself talking to a duck, purely, he would have insisted, to fill the quiet which enveloped the place without the four people he cared for dearly. Slim had taken Andy, as a tribute to his growing maturity, on stage-line business to Cheyenne, Jonesy was visiting his sister in St. Louis and Mike had been swept up by the Travers clan and was no doubt having the time of his life with the younger boys. Jess and the duck had had sole possession of the relay station for a couple of days and the mallard seemed determined to oversee the work. The fact that Napoleon was hyper-sensitive to Jess's moods might, of course, also have something to do with the way the little duck was following him around even more closely than usual.

Now Jess looked down at his faithful feathered companion and grinned. "Come on, then."

He kicked the front door open with one foot as he scooped up the parcel. The paper showed definite signs of having been roosted on by a damp duck. His name and address were just about readable on the outside but there was no indication of where it had come from. Jess was too busy to bother with a mystery parcel right now. He tossed it onto the table and headed for the bunk room in search of a clean shirt. Slim had been adamant about neat attire when greeting the stages, although Jess figured the clean shirt would be pretty much the worse for wear by the time he had looked after the passengers and changed the team. Much like his current shirt. He had been shoeing a couple of the stage team and forgotten to take it off before he started. Consequently it was not only sweaty but covered with horse-hair and black ashes from the forge.

There was a shirt hanging from the end of his bunk, which saved a foray into his far from tidy drawers. Jess scrambled into it, dropping the dirty one somewhere in the direction of the laundry basket. He'd just have to deal with the washing later. Now he needed to get the coffee on. And he badly needed a cup himself.

In the living room, Napoleon was sitting smugly on the parcel once more.

"Off!" Jess ordered in what he hoped were his sternest tones. "Y'know what Jonesy'll do to you if you get on the table!" The old cook just about tolerated the duck's assumption that Jess was his domestic pet (and not the other way round) but only just. House-training duck and man had been a bit of an issue.

Napoleon gave Jess a look which reminded him unmistakeably: " _Jonesy ain't here_!"

Jess sighed. He regarded the determined duck for a few moments, firmly controlling his desire to laugh: Napoleon was very good at interpreting human expressions. Jess decided the best option was to go somewhere else. Napoleon was more than usually attentive, because Jess was on his own. It was obvious that the little duck had no intention of allowing Jess to get too lonely, so he was not going to go on squatting on the parcel for long.

Consequently, Jess went into the kitchen and busied himself producing the coffee. He deliberately left the door open. Sure enough, the scratch of webbed feet heralded the arrival of the erstwhile feathered parcel-cover. Then there was a flutter of those feathers as Napoleon launched himself at one of his favorite places - the sink.

"Napoleon!" Jess yelled without turning round. "Y' know soapy water ain't good for y' feathers!"

Napoleon changed trajectory and landed neatly on the edge of the bench as if it had been his only objective. Jess looked over his shoulder. Napoleon looked right back with an expression which said quite clearly: " _Who me? Paddle in Jonesy's sink_?"

It was unfortunate that, when Napoleon was being cooperative, he chose the bench to do so. It was also the favorite seat of Mungo, the huge ginger ranch-cat. Mungo and Napoleon had come to some kind of mutual agreement about who took precedence in various areas of the yard and outbuildings, but Mungo knew he alone ruled indoors. He had not succeeded in convincing Napoleon of this, however. The only recourse left to him was physical aggression.

A furry ginger ball of fury launched itself from its sleeping place on the sunny window-sill and a mighty clawed paw slapped into the bench where Napoleon had been sitting only a moment before. The duck launched himself upward with a startled squawk which was immediately echoed by one from Jess as Napoleon's wing caught a jar of Jonesy's home-made liniment on the shelf above.

Jess launched himself to catch it. It upended as it fell. All over Jess's clean shirt.

"Napoleon!"

 _Quack_! This quack and the accompanying look declared plaintively: " _Don't blame me! It was that cat!"_

"Mungo – out!" Jess opened the back door and glared at the enraged feline, who glared right back. "Go catch some rats!" Jess ordered.

Mungo favored him with a supercilious and still furious hiss, but didn't like the pungent smell of the liniment any more than Jess did. He stalked out with his tail in the air, swishing it viciously as he went.

"You too!" Jess told the duck. "Fair's fair. Out!"

Napoleon hesitated just long enough to let Jess know that he was doing this because he couldn't stand the herbal aroma either. For a creature with nostrils in its bill, he managed to give the impression of holding his nose remarkably well.

Jess sighed again, pushed the coffee pot to the back of the stove and hauled his dripping shirt over his head. Several buttons spat across the floor. Jess groaned. But he was in luck. Jonesy had a pile of laundry waiting to be put away and on the top was another of Jess's shirts. Jonesy had even darned it and sewn on the missing buttons. Jess knew he'd get chapter and verse later for not doing it himself before he put it in the wash, but right now he blessed Jonesy fervently.

He dropped the aromatic shirt on the floor, moving it with his foot so it mopped up the worst of the mess. He was remembering another occasion when medicinal lotion had redecorated Jonesy's kitchen and a reminiscent grin lingered on his face for a good five minutes. But he was the one smothered in sludge this time and he had to get clean before the stage hove into sight.

Going out to the pump, Jess seized a basin and pumped himself a liberal amount of cold water. Much though he would have preferred warm, he just didn't have time to heat any. He gritted his teeth and washed vigorously. Then remembered that he hadn't got a towel.

 _Quack!_ The quack sounded slightly, very slightly, apologetic. Napoleon was sitting on the outside shelf. He was eyeing the bowl of water hopefully.

"Pity I can't train you to fetch towels," Jess told him.

Napoleon gave him another look. " _Train a duck? Are you suffering from delusions of grandeur?"_

To this, the little bird added further hopeful quack.

"Oh, all right!" Jess was unable to resist the appeal and put down his basin of water on the ground.

Napoleon descended with glee and a great deal of quacking. For some reason, he really enjoyed a bowl of shallow water. Maybe it was because Jess had just used it.

Jess, meanwhile, dripped back into the kitchen in search of a towel. The clean laundry pile was beginning to look distinctly battered by the time he found one and several of Slim's shirts had joined Jess's in the liniment on the floor. Jess was beginning to feel harassed. He'd have to boil enough water to wash the various dirty shirts and where was he going to find time to do that? He wished Slim's pa had had the forethought to build the place beside a hot spring!

His next duty, however, was to get the stage team harnessed ready, so that he could make a quick change while juggling this with coffee and hospitality at the same time. Rushing out of the house, he nearly put his foot in the bowl plus duck. Napoleon erupted, scattering water in every direction from his wings and finally upending the bowl when he tried to perch on its rim. Jess was not amused.

The horse barn was Jess's next port of call. He was still fuming after the stumble over Napoleon's bowl, which had nearly resulted in him measuring his length on the yard. There were times when an affectionate duck was nearly as much of a hazard as an affectionate female. He let his thoughts drift in this direction momentarily, not least because, with a certain female, the barn had been the location of some of their more intense encounters. This did not, however, mitigate his unreasonable annoyance with Napoleon for tripping him up, although it was hardly fair to blame the duck, who had only been indulging in an opportunity which Jess himself had provided. Maybe Jess's memories of his passionate clashes with a certain young Frenchwoman were not helping Napoleon's case.

Napoleon followed Jess into the horse barn, quaking anxiously. He appeared to feel he had pushed Jess's patience, which was never in great supply, just a little too far.

The Texan turned, hands on hips, and glared down at the little duck. Almost immediately he regretted this. Not only was Napoleon little but he had ' _poor bullied little duck_ ' down to an even finer art than the _'I am totally innocent_ ' expression often employed by man who was glaring at him. Jess immediately felt guilty. After all, Napoleon had only been behaving like a duck.

"Up!" Jess gestured curtly towards Traveller, who was regarding them quizzically from his stall. Napoleon obediently flew up and landed on the bay. Traveller snorted a friendly greeting: he appreciated Napoleon's affection for the One.

Not so Jess's second string, the irritable grey Smoke. His head came up from the next stall and he lunged across the partition, teeth bared.

"Give over!" Jess gave him a hearty slap on the neck. "Y'know Napoleon, so don't go pretendin' you don't!"

The grey's ears were flat back. He was jealous of anyone, except Traveller, who had Jess's attention, although, with a purely equine stubbornness, he would not have even thought of admitting this. Traveller snorted softly again and lifted his muzzle over the partition. The two horses rubbed against each other for a moment, then Smoke gave another huff and moved away, pacing edgily round the stall. Traveller heaved a sigh, not unlike his master, and relapsed into relaxation, one hip propped and his head drooped low. Jess regarded the three animals affectionately for a moment. There were amazing critters on the planet and he felt privileged to live alongside some of them.

Not long after, the stage rolled in. Jess dutifully escorted the ladies and gentlemen within and plied them with refreshments. After this, he rushed out to the barn and helped with a rapid change of the team. He was pleased to note that Traveller was dozing, Napoleon was asleep on his back and Smoke had not bitten the head off the duck or anyone else - yet.

"Just keep behavin' y'rself and I might let you stay!" Jess told the grey as he paused in passing through the stable.

Smoke gave a snort of derision, but Jess knew it was mostly bluff. "Get on with y'. Ain't nothing but a loada hot air and y' know it!"

The grey huffed at him again, but soon relented and came and leant across the bar to have his ears rubbed.

"You think I've got all day t'spoil you?" Jess demanded, caving in as he always did when appealed to by an animal. "Y' behave like a grizzly and then expect to get y'ears rubbed?"

Smoke butted him affectionately in the stomach and used those formidable teeth delicately to size a mouthful of Jess's shirt. Several of Jonesy's newly sewn buttons bit the dust. Jess cursed under his breath. To compound things, there was also a damp patch on his shoulder where Traveller was slobbering over him, having just had a good drink at the water-bucket in which Napoleon was now taking a bath.

"Napoleon!" The duck knew perfectly well that bathing in the animals' water was strictly forbidden.

Jess grabbed the bucket and took it outside to get fresh, ignoring Napoleon's hurt ' _You were neglecting me for those horses!'_ expression _._

Coming back, he slopped the water bucket in with Traveller, getting a liberal amount over his boots. Fortunately, given his appearance, the passengers were already strolling out to board the now-ready stage. As it rolled away, adding dust to the slobbery, sweaty and more or less buttonless shirt he was wearing, Jess gave a protesting groan. It was only noon and already he felt exhausted. What he needed now was some fresh coffee!

Back in the kitchen, Jess rooted once more through the laundry pile – or disaster area as it might by this time more properly be designated. He was in luck. There was one remaining wearable shirt of his. He was about to pull it on and also to scoop up the mess of shirts on the floor, when there was a startled quack from Napoleon, who had, of course, followed him out of the barn.

Jess hastened outside, dropping his discarded shirt on the floor near the kitchen door as he did so.

Napoleon was bristling. He might be little duck, but he did not take kindly to marauding hawks diving at the loose poultry. He obviously did not consider himself to come under this category and was in the process of mounting a wing-flapping, quacking, furious defense of the chickens when Jess appeared, clean shirt in one hand and gun in the other.

It was not surprising Jess missed – if he had really been intent on doing actual harm to the aerial assassins, they would have been pot-ready before they were much older. His single shot between the pair was enough to send them spiraling upwards. For good measure, he waved his clean shirt violently, accompanied in duet by Napoleon's flapping. The chickens had hysterics.

Jess regarded them balefully. "I suppose now y' ain't gonna lay an egg between you for the next week," he observed.

Napoleon, meanwhile, was so delighted with their joint victory over the avian raiders that he flew up and perched on Jess's shoulder. Since Jess had just pulled on the clean shirt and Napoleon had just had a turn in the water bucket, the result was not felicitous. Quite apart from anything else, the grip of his webbed feet did little for the coherence of the fabric.

Jess decided to ignore the wet patch and the torn threads. At this rate, he would certainly be doing a load of washing before the others got home. But first, he'd have to gather up the dirty shirts he'd been scattering around the premises, preferably before his little feathered friend decided to nest in them.

"Down!" he ordered firmly and pointed to the ground to emphasize his order.

Napoleon gave him such a look of piteous rejection as he jumped down that Jess weakened and pumped him another bowl of water to play in. Thus, through kindliness to dumb animals, he paved the way for his own downfall. Napoleon gave a joyful chuckle of thanks – his ability to manipulate human reactions proved conclusively that _he_ wasn't dumb at all.

Leaving the duck happily splashing, Jess went back inside and poured himself a very strong cup of coffee. And another. And another. Feeling somewhat better, but very hungry, he looked around for something to eat. The options were limited without getting down to some serious cooking. He grabbed bread and cheese instead. It would have to do because he had far too much else outside to cope with. He banked up the stove, ready to cook something in the evening, washed out the coffee pot and prepared it for the next stage. When he had collected the crockery from the previous one, he dumped it in the sink, hoping to ignore for at least a little longer the way the washing up was piling up.

Thus somewhat refreshed, he went back out to the barn and made sure there was sufficient hay, water and feed for the next incoming team. He fetched in the replacement horses from the paddock and set about brushing them down thoroughly. Napoleon sauntered in after a while – yes, that duck could saunter where others merely waddled. He hopped up on to Traveller once more and proceeded to have a little snooze.

Jess was getting hot and dusty again, but only stopped as he crossed the yard on his way to the vegetable garden in order to stick his head under the pump. It didn't do much for the shirt. Jess was not keen on gardening, only on eating the results. But he dutifully hoed two rows of beans on the grounds that it would save Jonesy's back some. Then he picked a good selection of ripe vegetables and deposited them in one of the boxes stacked under the eaves of the house for such a purpose.

On his way back to the kitchen, he remembered that he had promised to mend the catch on one of the big crates Andy and Mike had converted to house their adopted animals. He was not surprised to see Napoleon sitting on top of it. _The way that duck read his mind was positively spooky but always pretty accurate!_ Even though Napoleon himself was a seasoned escapologist, he was quite keen for the menagerie to stay safely locked up. There were critters in there which might be partial to a mouthful of duck. He gave Jess a meaningful stare which said ' _Are you going to keep me safe?'_

"All right, I'm getting on with it!" Jess deposited the box of vegetables out of the way and fetched some tools from the smaller barn. It did not take him long to fix the fastening and put the tools away again. Meanwhile, once the mallard was satisfied that his human was getting on with priority tasks, Napoleon returned to the area of the pump, which was now more of a duck-wallow due to his activities in basins of water.

It was a pity Jess did not spot this. As it was, his view of his feet was impeded by the vegetable box. The area outside the kitchen door resembled a mud-slide.

Jess slid.

He landed flat on his back in several inches of mud. Vegetables rained down on him from the box which had flown out of his hands, executing a neat arc and nearly braining Napoleon as it landed. All the breath was driven out of his lungs. For a moment.

"Na - ppp- oleon!"

The duck, faced with a muddy and infuriated cowboy, gave an almighty quack and flew up onto the roof. There were times when being well out of Jess's arms' reach was a distinctly good idea!

Below him there was the sound of muddy vegetables being hurled back into a wooden box. Vegetable mash was likely on the menu tonight. The kitchen door banged open. It slammed shut. Wood thudded on wood as the box hit the bench. Another door crashed open. Boots stamped angrily across the living room. The door of the bunk-room got the same treatment as all the rest. Napoleon was no expert on human carpentry, but he sure hoped it was going to stand up to Jess's temper. After that, there was silence for at least two minutes.

During those two minutes, Jess divested himself of his muddy shirt and pants.

Then came the rattle of a drawer being pulled out from the chest of drawers.

Jess found a clean pair of pants. _At least someone must be looking out for him a bit today!_ he mused as he pulled them on and refastened his gun-belt.

The top drawer of the chest was already half open. It was Jess's shirt drawer.

"Na – po – lee – un!"

Napoleon resolved to remain on the roof for the foreseeable future. Actually a duck can't foresee the future any more than humans can, but he knew full well he had crossed the line last night.

"You disgustin' little duck! What've y' done on my clean shirts!" Jess yelled.

This was purely a rhetorical question, since they both knew exactly what Napoleon had done. It was a result of sneaking in the open bedroom window and spending the night nesting as close as he dared to his pet without actually revealing his firmly forbidden presence.

The bunk-room window slammed open even wider and a pile of odoriferous and mucky shirts landed outside. Napoleon backed up the roof and hid behind the chimney.

Below Jess stood in the bunk-room, his shirtless chest heaving with a combination of anger and slightly hysterical laughter. Jonesy always said he had a vendetta against shirts. It appeared that Napoleon had taken this several stages further.

Jess kicked the one he had taken off first, which was lying in a crumpled heap by the laundry basket. It served him right for picking it up off the floor that morning instead of looking in his drawer for a clean one; at least then he'd have known the worst. After two days use, it was quite unwearable. He stood for a bit, debating with himself. Then, with an air of resolution and daring, he yanked open Slim's shirt drawer.

It was empty.

 _Slim must have taken all his clean shirts to Cheyenne!_ Jess realized, closely followed by the baffled mental demand: _What the devil could he want with more than a couple of clean shirts in Cheyenne?_ And the answer which did occur to him was quickly scotched by the flat impossibility of it: _Not when Andy was with him!_

Jess looked around some more. Andy's shirts were hopeless. Jess might have been able to squeeze into one when he first arrived, half-starved and cutting-edge lean, at the ranch, and even then he'd have been hard-put to button it. Now Jonesy was making sure he got properly fed and with all the physical labor he was doing, his physique put paid to any such borrowing. Mike's were plumb impossible. Jonesy? But Jonesy favored stiff detachable collars on his shirts. Jess had never ever mastered the art of fastening one and was not sanguine about Slim's reaction to him appearing before passengers without a collar to his name. Besides, they were totally unsuitable for someone with Jess's ability to attract grime, not to mention being extremely hot during physical labor.

He wandered absently back into the living room with the vague idea that a shirt might be lurking somewhere down the back of the couch or cunningly disguised as a floor-rag. There was no sign of any such thing, although he looked everywhere, even under the table.

Rising up, his eyes came level with the parcel he had laid aside so long ago. Now he tossed the muddy shirt, screwed into a tight ball by his frustrated hands, into the log basket by the fire. He fished out his knife and cut the string of the parcel. The wrapping fell away. Lying in his hands was a shirt.

It was deep glowing violet with white spots.

Jess stared at it dumbly for several more minutes. He reviewed his options. _Spend the rest of the day shirtless and face Slim's wrath at treating the passengers to much more than just coffee and biscuits? Wear his winter coat and expire from heat-exhaustion? Hastily wash all the dirty shirts and wear a wet one? Nope – that option would be nearly as revealing as no shirt and might possibly incur even more of Slim's wrath._

 _Wear the spotted shirt and take the consequences?_

At this point, the familiar rattle of wheels and hooves sounded on the road outside.

 _That did it_! Jess rapidly pulled on the shirt and went out into the yard, tucking it in as he did so and fastening down his gun-belt.

The stage pulled up with a flourish, although not quite the flourish it would have made if Jess had done his usual trick of standing right in its path until the last possible minute. Given the lurid color of his shirt, this was probably as well, for the horses would not have taken kindly to its brilliance.

Frank, the driver, looked down and his eyes nearly bugged out of his head as Jess came over to deal with the passengers. A gleeful smirk crossed his face and he elbowed the shot-gun guard meaningfully in the ribs.

"What are y' –" The guard stopped abruptly as his jaw dropped open in surprise. A snide grin transformed his features. "Well, hey – will y' look at …"

His voice trailed off into silence. There was something about the set of Jess's shoulders and the stalk in his walk which suggested that further comment would be highly inadvisable. Both driver and guard shut up abruptly and hastily looked in the other direction.

When he had opened the door Jess stood back politely, ready to assist any female passengers. First off was Mr. Mulholland, the bank manager. He was halfway through a cheerful greeting when reality struck.

"Good afternoon, Jess! Saw Slim and Andy in Cheyenne and they – " He gathered himself with a considerable effort and continued: "I can see you're all ready to celebrate their return home."

"Mr. Mulholland." Jess gave him a polite nod and turned back to the coach. He extended a hand to the next passenger, who happened to be one of the Mulhollands' innumerable nieces. Not ever having met Jess, her eyes widened as she took in the shirt, but she politely kept her comments to herself and her smile behind the fan she was wielding.

Behind her came a sprightly old lady who did not conceal her broad grin at the sight of her favorite young man clad in material which would have done justice to a summer dress. Since Miss Eli was the local dressmaker, she eyed him up and down from the height of the doorway and said briskly: "Bright – but hardly practical."

"Tell me about it!" Jess groaned as he lifted her down to the ground in a single movement.

"You definitely sweep me off my feet," Miss Eli told him, "but I sell that stuff at 50 cents a yard for church wear!"

"Come and have some coffee!" Jess gave her his arm and escorted her politely into the house, where he went through the usual routine of providing refreshments before dashing outside to help complete the change-over of the team.

As he approached the barn, he heard Frank chuckling: "Church dress, my eye! I don't think the good Reverend Fitzwilliam is goin' to be welcomin' Jess Harper while he's wearin' that!"

Jess stepped through the door. "And he'll miss your voice in the choir, Frank, when you can't sing a note because I've pushed y' damn tongue through y' teeth!"

He sounded so ferocious that both men backed off rapidly, making protesting noises and apologies. Jess glowered at them, clearly controlling his temper with difficulty. There was a moment's stand-off before they all thought the better of letting the situation deteriorate any further and completed the change swiftly. Soon the stage departed in another cloud of dust.

It did not settle on Jess because he had already started on his next task, the afternoon milking. The cow took exception to his shirt too. She refused to stand still, nearly upending the bucket several times. In the end, Jess tied her up so firmly she could do nothing but swat him with her tail and bellow mournfully through the whole process. Feeling slightly deafened, all on account of a measly shirt, Jess hastened to put the cow back in the pasture and round up the goats.

Round up was probably his intent, but the goats, unlike the cow, had lurid tastes and took the shirt as an invitation to play. They cheerfully skittered just out of Jess's reach, frustrating his attempts to grab and halter them. Soon he was hot, cross and had succeeded in extracting only about half a bucket from the frisky animals.

At this point, he gave up and hauled both buckets off to the dairy. The dairy was full of Mungo. He seemed determined to include it in his kingdom, despite being totally forbidden entry.

"Out!" Jess snarled, not for the first time that day. He was beginning to wonder if he had got stuck in a verbal groove with only the animals for company. _Maybe by the time the rest of the family got back, he'd have forgotten how to talk?_

The sight of Mungo naturally brought his rival to mind. Jess wondered where Napoleon was hiding. He took a good look round the dairy, in case. It would be just his luck to come back and find the wretched duck swimming in the milk bucket! And that thought made him begin to grin, despite all that had gone wrong. In his heart of hearts, he missed the little fellow's encouraging chuckle, masquerading as a quack. _O well, he'd put in an appearance when he wanted to be fed!_ Like master, like duck!

There were no more scheduled stages today and Jess had in mind to take a brisk ride round the nearer parts of the range to check the young stock and the fences. It wasn't really necessary, but he was most at home in the saddle and needed a break from the house and any potential visitors who would have sarcastic comments to make on his shirt.

It was definitely not his lucky day.

He was busy saddling Smoke, who deserved to do some work after his behavior earlier, when he heard the sound of a number of horses approaching at a steady lope. He waited to see if they would pass on by, but instead he heard the pace slow and someone call out: "Looks like we c'n get water at this place."

 _Better than sneaking some out of the lake!_ Jess thought with a wry grin, recalling his first encounter with Slim Sherman. He finished saddling Smoke quickly, then let the grey loose to follow him out of the barn, knowing that the animal would stand and wait if signaled to do so. He took this precaution in order to keep both hands free, for his suspicions were aroused by what he was and wasn't hearing outside.

There was, for instance, no call or greeting and no sound of knocking at the ranch house door. On the contrary, the place felt as if it had just been invaded by those who considered they were tough enough to take whatever they wanted and so were justified in helping themselves. At the very least, this was bad manners. At worst it argued visitors he could well do without.

Jess strolled casually out of the barn, his horse behind him, as if trouble was the furthest thing from his mind. In reality, however, every nerve and sinew was alert and ready to spring into action. He saw five men. This vision clarified almost instantly – three men, an old man and a youngster, hardly more than a boy. They were all totally preoccupied with their own business.

"Fill the canteens, Benny!" one of the men ordered. He was taller than the other two men, bulging with muscle, and looked mean with it. "And get a move on! We ain't gonna waste more time than we have to."

The boy immediately crossed to the pump and began to work the handle vigorously. Water splashed everywhere – messy and wasteful! But it was clear he understood the consequences of not obeying swiftly. Jess knew the feeling well. The men were obviously drifters: their gear, the condition of their horses and, most of all, the set of their faces told of a life moving from place to place, rootless, without loyalty or ties, not even to each other beyond the needs of the moment. They might or might not be criminals – Jess had no way to judge this, but at once, in his heart, he wanted to free Ben from the life of toil and hardship which he knew the kid was enduring.

The uninvited visitors were still oblivious to his presence.

"Can I help you?" Jess inquired quietly, but with sufficient steel in his voice to indicate that he did not take their actions kindly.

The big man, who had given the orders to the kid, swung round at the sound of a voice. He looked Jess up and down and grinned in a manner which make no attempt to conceal his thoughts.

"Well, look'y here! D'you get dressed up all pretty just t' welcome us?"

There was a supporting titter from the other two men, even though they hung well back from the confrontation which was taking place.

"You ain't welcome!" Jess was pulling no punches on this. "Water for you and y' horses we'll give, same as we'd expect on the road. But next time, remember it's polite t' ask first."

"Oh, dear!" the big man mocked. "Did we offend y', sweetheart?"

Jess made no answer to this. Just stood rock-solid and braced, ready to take down the whole lot of them if need be.

"What y' need is a little tenderness." The man was closing the gap between them as he spoke. "Guess there ain't much fun for a … lady … this far out of town."

His brand of humor drew further sniggers from his companions. Jess continued, apparently, to focus his entire attention on the leader. Actually he was rapidly calculating height, weight, distance and likely speed of response for all three of the strangers.

"A little darlin' like you needs takin' straight back in the barn an' teachin' how to behave to a real man!" The big man made a grab for Jess, but found himself floundering and snatching at empty space.

There are death-stares. And then there is the look of a Harper who has just been called 'little'. The drifter should have paid more attention to the difference.

"Water y' horses and get out of here!"

"Now that's a mighty unfriendly attitude from someone as fetchin' as you. Maybe y' need t'learn some ladylike manners!"

Again the leader made a lunge, aiming to bring Jess into an unbreakable grapple. Instead he met with a straight right to the jaw, followed by a slamming left to the solar plexus which had him doubled up instantly. This did nothing to cool his animosity.

"Why you little runt!"

Two uses of the L-word within so many seconds really sealed his fate. Jess waded in with unleashed fury, not just at the insults but because of the insolent disregard for the laws of hospitality. The really bad shirt day that he was having might, just might, have added a little extra to his rage.

At any rate, he set about the leader, fists flying in true Harper fashion, to such an extent that the man yelled to his companions to help him. A second drifter jumped on Jess's back, meaning to throttle him from behind, and was summarily tossed head over heels as Jess twisted and spun in his grasp. As the second man landed flat on his own back, Jess kicked the big man's legs from under him, sending him toppling to join the one already on the floor. The third man realized the fight was definitely not going their way and gave a roar of intended intimidation as he leapt into the fray.

It was this roar which decided Napoleon. He had been peeking from behind the chimney for some time and seeing Jess set upon by such unequal odds was too much for him. He spread his wings, tore down the roof, gaining considerable speed for his take-off, and launched himself straight for the face of the only antagonist left standing.

The man flung up an arm in defense against this feathered tornado, leaving himself wide open to one of Jess's 'double-you-up' punches. As he bent over clutching his stomach, the valiant rescue duck's wings beat about his head and, for good measure, a huge ginger cat appeared out of nowhere and took a nasty swipe at his leg, aiming with long practice for the part above boot-level.

On the edge of this melee, Smoke had stood as bidden with commendable patience. It was not, however, in his nature, any more than it was his master's, to resist the temptation of a good fight. Once Napoleon and Mungo had joined in, the grey saw no reason to restrain his habitual bad temper with other horses who violated the space he considered rightfully his. In this case, drinking from his water-trough was out!

With a snort and a squeal of rage, Smoke charged the three horses, nipping and snapping and snaking his head from side to side with gleeful malice. He reared up and lashed out, narrowly missing making contact, which may or may not have been deliberate. The three horses didn't wait to find out. With one accord, they bolted back to the road. Smoke charged after them, driving them into a stampede, not in the direction of Laramie, but back the way they had come.

The old man had been sitting on his horse, all this while, watching the altercation with a bitter grin. When he saw that the drifters were not, in fact, going to get the better of Jess, the grin turned to a cackle of laughter. As the other horses bolted, he turned his own mount and the boy's pony which he had been holding.

"Come on, Ben! Mount up, son, and let's get the hell out of here while the goin's good!"

The boy raced across the yard, the full canteens bouncing as he ran. He jumped onto the pony and the pair raced off down the road to Laramie as fast as the other horses were bolting in the opposite direction. Observing this, Jess felt somewhat reassured about the boy's fate, but made a mental note to check up on the new arrivals next time he was in town. Meanwhile, he had a task to finish.

Jess picked up the two opponents he had felled by their grubby vests, dragged them over the water trough and ducked them smartly in it. He held them down for as long as was commensurate with a good fright, then let them up again. As they spluttered and gasped, he snarled: "You got the message yet?"

More spluttering seemed to acknowledge that they had been seriously mistaken in trying to commandeer the resources of the young man in the spotted shirt. The third man was still grovelling on the ground, trying to hide his head from the combined assault of duck and cat.

"That's enough, Napoleon!"

Napoleon gave a final jab of his beak to his victim and flew triumphantly to perch on Jess's shoulder. Jess gave Mungo a look. The cat uttered a yowl which would have done credit to one of its much larger relatives. The third man scrambled to his feet and ran. His fellows followed him and all three could be seen staggering up the slope of the rise towards Cheyenne, over which their horses had long since disappeared.

Jess gave a lilting whistle, one which Smoke knew meant a reward. The grey cantered back to the yard, scarcely blown, but snorting with what appeared to be equine amusement.

Man, duck, cat and horse stood watching until their enemies were finally out of sight.

"I suppose you lot are gonna want feedin' now?" Jess observed to his animal allies.

Mungo uttered a satisfied meow which was more like a growl and stalked off to sit impatiently outside the back door. Jess led Smoke back to his stall, unsaddled him and gave him a handful of oats and a good ear-pull. All the while, the faithful duck clung to his shoulder.

When Smoke had been duly rewarded, Jess turned his full attention to the mighty mallard. He encouraged Napoleon to come down from his perch for a more comfortable cuddle in his arms.

"Ok, little hero – I was certainly right t' give you a battlin' name!"

He strolled over to the house, deposited Napoleon temporarily in his duck-wallow by the pump and went inside to find some scraps for Mungo. Then he shut the kitchen door firmly on the mess of dirty shirts occupying almost all the floor. Instead of clearing up and getting on with the supper, he went back to the porch and flopped into a chair. Even his stomach would have to wait a while. Napoleon hopped up on to his knee, with the inevitable mud accompanying him.

Jess sighed. "Ain't you got a nice pond and three wives to play mud-paddlin' with instead of hangin' around the house porch?"

Napoleon gave him a duck-to-man look: _If you had three wives, you'd be hanging out here with your best friend too!_

 **ooooo**

It was early evening when Slim, Andy and Mike rode into the yard. The brothers had collected the newest member of the family from the Travers and, although he was sorry to leave the company in which he had had such fun, Mike was delighted to be riding home with his older companions.

The ranch house lay peacefully in the soft sunset light. There was a drift of smoke from the chimney and lamplight showing from the kitchen window and the smell of something savory wafting on the gently moving air.

"Good, Jess's made supper," Andy said with rather more enthusiasm than Jess's cooking skills probably warranted.

"Hope he's made enough!" Mike's appetite, like that of his guardian, was not easily satisfied.

Slim was casting an experienced eye over the yard and buildings. He could see the normal evening tasks had been done and the place secured for the night. He hoped Jess had got the message he sent with Mr Mulholland about their impending return. It looked as if everything was in order. But there was something niggling at his mind. Something not quite right, although he could not immediately put a finger on what.

It wasn't until they had stabled the horses and were making their way to the house that he noticed all his available shirts flapping on the line. A puzzled frown creased his forehead. _Jess had obviously found time to do some laundry, but why Slim's shirts, which he was positive Jonesy had washed before he left?_ His uneasiness was further increased by spotting a heap of material outside the bunk-room window. It looked like a pile of Jess's shirts.

Slim frowned again. _Jess could be untidy, but never yet took to keeping his dirty linen outside!_

The smell of supper lured them into the kitchen, where they found another shirt by the door and one dumped to soak in a basin next to the sink.

Slim frowned some more. _More laundry? And the floor looked suspiciously clean too._

They all crowded into the living room at once. Slim strode over to the table, pulled down the hanging lamp and lit it. The warm glow revealed another battered shirt screwed up in a ball in the log basket. He had to look somewhat harder to locate his partner.

Jess was sprawled on the couch, concealed from immediate view. His boots were off and Napoleon was sitting on his chest. Sitting on a chest clad in a glowing purple and white spotted shirt.

They all stood dumbfounded for several seconds. Napoleon gave them a greeting quack, which sounded suspiciously like a prolonged chuckle. Andy and Mike struggled hard to contain their own mirth at the sight Jess presented.

Not so Slim.

"Jess, why on earth are you wearing that terrible shirt?" he demanded.

Jess didn't even bother to open his eyes.

"Ask Napoleon!" he said.

.

* * *

.

Notes

Napoleon is, of course, the hero of ' _Duck Rustler'._


	5. Chapter 5

.

.

.

 **Shirt Tale 5**

 **Ropa Adecuada and One Darn'd Shirt**

.

"Parcel for you, Mr. Harper."

The kid leaned down from his panting pony and thrust the parcel into Jess's hands.

"Joe said it was special delivery, get it to you pronto." There was a distinctly mercenary gleam in the boy's eye. He'd probably been well paid to do it.

"Mr. Staines to you, brat!" Jess aimed a playful cuff at his head, but without making contact as he was somewhat encumbered by long, box-shaped parcel. Nonetheless, he appreciated that the kid had ridden twelve miles to deliver it and certainly wouldn't be home for dinner.

"Come on in." Jess cocked an eye at Jonesy and the old cook nodded. He always had plenty extra on the stove with Jess as a member of the household.

"Yeah, come on!" Andy said eagerly. "Mike's got two new rabbits and there's a family of baby mice I'm trying to keep alive!" The pair were about to scamper off, when Slim, being an elder brother, gave a timely reminder.

"Pony first, Andy – he's done all the work delivering the parcel."

"Right!" Andy would never normally neglect an animal and looked justifiably ashamed.

"You don't get friends coming so very often," Slim said understandingly, "but Jim's got to get home later and a tired pony is going to find that hard."

"Ok. Mike's in the barn. He can help us."

The boys led the pony off willingly in the direction of the barn. It was only after this that Slim and Jonesy realized Jess hadn't moved a muscle and was still regarding the parcel in his hands with a mixture of amusement, determination and a soupçon of exasperation. They did not know that he instantly recognized the handwriting on the rather elaborate label affixed to the said parcel, but they recognized his expression only too well.

"She sent you something?" Slim asked, trying to keep his own amusement out of his voice. "Didn't think it was Christmas yet."

"Definitely ain't Christmas," Jonesy put in, "and it ain't y' birthday neither."

They waited expectantly. Jess appeared to be calculating something in his head. Then he nodded and said: "Odd."

"Odd?" Slim knew better than to push for information or he'd get told shortly to mind his own business.

"Yeah. She's arrivin' the day after tomorrow."

"What!" Slim and Jonesy yelled in unison. Jonesy was instantly trying to work out how the accommodation in the ranch house could be stretched to make room for a female visitor. Slim was wishing that Jess would be just a little bit more forthcoming about his on-going … well, for want of a better word … 'relationship' with a certain French girl.

Jess came back to the present with a grin and read their minds easily. "Oh, don't get in a sweat. She's comin' with Sally and stayin' up at the Travers place."

Slim contained his surprise and aroused interest at this piece of news quite well, he thought, but he didn't fool Jess for one minute.

"Didn't tell y' in advance, 'cos Sal wasn't sure she was coming herself. Didn't want y' gettin' over-excited!"

To divert the teasing which he saw was about to break over his head, Slim asked hastily: "So why did Chantal send a parcel to you when she could have brought it herself?"

Jess shrugged in a manner which indicated 'don't ask me to explain female logic' and reinforced this by saying: "Beats me."

"So, you gonna keep us standin' round here when there's work t'do or are y' gonna get t' openin' it before Christmas?" Jonesy asked, disguising his rampant curiosity as disinterested sarcasm.

Jess just grinned, slapped him on the shoulder and led the way into the house. He put the parcel down on the table. The three of them stood and looked at it.

"That's one real fancy wrappin'," Jonesy observed. "Ain't nothin' stingy about that parcel."

Again Jess shrugged, as if the price of the gift was immaterial, even though its value might not be. "Tal's got plenty of money."

"Thought the girl had more sense'n t' waste it on you!" Jonesy observed caustically. In reality he was dying to urge Jess to get on with opening the parcel.

At last Jess drew his knife and made short work of the string. Once the outer paper was off, an elegantly decorated box was revealed. When he opened it rather gingerly, the contents were swathed in delicate tissue. On top was a gold-edged card with writing in purple ink. Jess read it. He read it again. He set it down carefully and deliberately on the table where it lay glittering slightly and severely tempting Slim and Jonesy to try to read it upside down.

Jess picked up the tissue-wrapped contents of the box and slowly removed one layer at a time. At last he arrived at the final layer and shook out the soft material it contained. He looked down at the shirt in his hands.

It was a deep turquoise-blue silk. It had white spots.

There was the sound of a stifled gulp. It was a moot point which one of the three of them had made it. Slim and Jonesy stood mute and motionless, waiting for Jess's reaction.

Surprisingly, he gave a deep, heartfelt chuckle. "Well I'll be dar – damned!" He gave another chuckle at the way he had switched words. Then he took hold of the fabric of the shirt and gave it an experimental yank. Nothing happened. He twisted the buttons against the buttonholes but they remained firmly attached.

Just when it seemed his partner might take out his knife and see if he could slit the material, Slim inquired hastily: "Jess, what the heck are you doing?"

"Yeah," Jonesy chimed in, "sure ain't the way to treat a fancy shirt."

Jess looked up from his preoccupation with the possible destruction of the said shirt. His eyes glittered and his lips were severely compressed, since he seemed to be struggling determinedly not to laugh. He picked up the gold-edged card and held it out so they could read it.

At the top was some embossed printing. Below was a hand-written message:

Cameron, Kirt and Carlisle

Bespoke Shirt-makers

 _Sent at the request of Mademoiselle Chantal Picard 'to mitigate the necessity of darning'._

"Oh!" Slim thought he'd got used to the eccentric nature of the relationship between Jess and Chantal, but no! This was definitely a first! _The girl must have gone mad, sending a spotted shirt to Jess. Or else she was aiming to drive him mad …_

Jonesy stretched out a tentative finger and touched the material. "You ain't tellin' me that's gonna last long in the wash."

"If it gets as far as the wash," Jess agreed. He was remembering a shirt of his which had been sacrificed to turn Chantal into a child-age mine slave and wondering if this was intended as a replacement. After all, for some unfathomable reason, she had darned that one before she cut it up. In addition, he'd given her perfectly clear orders on the subject of suitable clothing on a number of occasions; in fact he'd said "Ropa adecuada la próxima vez!" more often than he'd actually said "goodbye". He had the feeling his leg was being well and truly pulled.

"You aren't going to get it dirty, anyway, are you?" Slim asked in consternation. "That is definitely a … a…" He looked at the shirt again and ran out of words.

"A special occasion shirt?" Jonesy suggested.

But Jess was not listening. A wicked gleam entered his eyes. He vowed with a feral grin: "I'll give her darning!"

 **ooooo**

The next morning Jonesy arrived in the kitchen at his usual time, just before daybreak, to find that Jess, clad in the new spotted shirt, was already up and had raked out, cleaned, black-leaded and lit the stove for him. Jess's hands, face and knees showed distinct signs of this activity, but the shirt continued to shine with a soft glow which matched the glitter in his blue eyes. He had, however, played fair when undertaking this task, in that he had actually donned an apron to do it.

As Jonesy entered the kitchen, Jess tossed the apron, now liberally decorated with black smears, into the washing basket.

"You gonna do the washing too?" Jonesy demanded, somewhat nettled at the invasion of his domain.

"Nope. I'm polishin' boots next," Jess informed him. "Go get your best ones, Jonesy!"

Somewhat mollified by this generous offer, Jonesy stumped off to comply, followed by a further injunction: "Bring everyone else's too!"

By the time Slim emerged from slumber, as was his habit, when the sun rose, a neat row of highly polished boots stood on the porch. Jess was nowhere to be seen.

"Jess isn't in his bunk!" were Slim's worried words as soon as he got into the living room.

"He's weedin' the vegetables," Jonesy told him. "An' after, he said he was goin' up the bank to the briar patch to get some fresh blackberries for breakfast. An' he's wearin' that shirt!"

Slim stared at him, hardly able to believe his ears, let alone his eyes. _Jess Harper? Out of bed first? And working! Before the coffee was even brewed!_ When he'd processed these amazing facts, he concluded: "Maybe we should get Chantal to send him a shirt more often?"

Jonesy shook his head. "I think it's just that particular shirt."

Slim considered some more. "Pity. For a moment, I thought we were on to a good thing!"

Just then, Andy and Mike erupted from the back bedroom, demanding to know where their boots had gone.

"Jess cleaned them for y'." Jonesy nodded towards the porch and the line of boots.

The boys stood and contemplated them in awe. "Hey, mine were real dirty!" Mike admitted. "D'you think we owe Jess for this?"

"No, y' don't." Jess appeared round the corner of the house, carrying a box of fresh vegetables and bowl of blackberries. His hands, gloveless in order to pick more easily, were liberally stained with blackberry juice, he had a smear of it across his face and his hair was standing on end with a couple of dead leaves entwined fetchingly in it. The shirt remained immaculate.

"Gee, Jess – you need a bath!" Mike was nothing if not frank.

"You first, Bear Cub!" Jess knew full well how difficult it was to get Mike to wash, let alone take a bath. "And no doubt Andy could do with a wet flannel behind the ears!"

Mike and Andy both made a dash for the breakfast table at this threat, scarcely focusing on Jess and his strange behavior in their desire to escape enforced ablutions. Jess grinned and pulled off the shirt and had a good wash under the pump before bringing in his offerings to the kitchen.

Jonesy regarded him with disfavor. "You ain't comin' to the table without you dress properly!" he admonished, looking at Jess's bare and dripping torso. But he relented and handed him a clean towel.

"Yeah, just give me a minute," Jess agreed, toweling himself cheerfully. He hopped back outside and pulled on the shirt, which he had thrown carelessly over the porch rail. Contrary to the behavior of all Jess's other shirts, this one did not snag on a splinter or split a seam because of the vigor with which it was dragged on.

Jess came into the living room, tucking the shirt in with one hand as he tossed his gun-belt on to the pegs inside the door with the other. Andy and Mike regarded him with even more awe than they had the cleaned boots. The shirt had finally registered, since they had not been around when it was unwrapped.

"Um-mm, where did the new shirt come from, Jess?" Andy asked, trying with typical Sherman consideration to be tactful.

"Chantal." Jess was busy focusing his attention, as usual, on getting more than his fair share of the breakfast if he could and was evidently not inclined to answer questions.

Andy looked at his elder brother for guidance and mouthed: "Is he serious?"

Slim nodded but did not elaborate. He was not sure, in any case, what he could add to clarify the situation.

Mike had no such qualms. "Guess he's only wearin' it because he's in love with her!" he opined with the air of one stating the obvious.

Jess looked up sharply and Slim tensed, not knowing how his partner was going to react to this blunt statement. It had been some time since he had felt that he might have to divert Jess's anger at the breakfast table. This time such action, happily, proved to be unnecessary, although it felt like a near thing.

Across the table, Jess faced the little boy with such a daunting look that it would have frozen anyone else in their seat. Mike simply beamed back at him, his whole face radiating innocent pleasure. The pause was beginning to feel fraught when Jess leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially: "Mike, here's something y' need to learn."

"Yeah, Jess?"

"Yeah. Y' never – ever - ever tell a lady that a man's wearin' something because he's in love! 'Cos he might not be. Ok?"

"Sure, Jess!" Mike dismissed the whole subject by applying himself to the competition with his guardian over the eggs and bacon. Everyone else let out the breath they had been holding.

 _Not in love?_ Slim thought. _Pull the other one!_ And then he hastily turned his mind and his longer reach to making sure he got some breakfast. In love or not, the present situation had in no way diminished Jess's appetite!

Once there was no possible edible scrap left and the boys had begun to help Jonesy with the clearing, Slim and Jess made their way to the barn. They had, as usual, divvied up the jobs between them the night before. Slim was still skeptical that Jess was really going to take on the messiest and smelliest tasks for the day. _Heck, he had even volunteered to tidy up the muck heap, break the ground for a new section to extend the vegetable garden and dig in the manure!_

His forebodings proved misplaced. Jess tackled this chore with an enthusiasm which seemed quite out of proportion to the work he was doing. He was whistling cheerfully to himself most of the time and had an almost permanent grin on his face when he wasn't. Nonetheless, when they gathered back on the porch for some well-earned mid-morning coffee, a slight frown had begun to appear.

Slim fully expected Jess to demand to be relieved of any further dirty and onerous toil, but this was not the case. Jess just pulled irritably at the collar of his new shirt and ran a disbelieving hand over the material. Slim could hardly believe it either. Jess was mucky, sweaty and frankly smelly, but the shirt looked as if it had just come out of its tissue wrappings.

It looked no different after they had spent some vigorous time and energy fixing the back axle of the small wagon, which required a lot of lifting, shifting and hammering, not to mention working the forge for the fittings. At intervals in this work, they dealt with the routine arrival and departure of a couple of stages. Normally Jess's shirt would have been showing the strain by now, but no – every seam was intact and every button in place. Presently they went indoors for the noonday meal.

In the afternoon they rode out to check the nearby stock and fences. Repairing the fencing was always a strenuous job, with the hazards of nails, hammers, cutters, wire and splintered posts ever present. Jess's shirt remained unsnagged. It remained unsnagged even when, at Jess's suggestion, they set about clearing some of the thick, prickly scrub which was beginning to encroach on one of the water-courses.

This tactic having utterly failed to make the slightest impression on his gift-shirt, Jess volunteered himself to haul in a load of rough timber from the wood behind the ranch house. Finally he completed the stress-test when he started to break in a couple of green mustangs.

By the time evening came, Jess was pretty tired and the shirt was still immaculately intact. As they sat down to supper, he heaved a groan of frustration and said: "I guess there's nothing for it but to get into a couple of fights!"

"What?" Slim yelped in alarm. "Why would you want to get into a fight?"

Jess looked down at the shirt. "Well, I gotta to give her something t'darn, ain't I?"

"You're sure a fight is the right way to go about it?" Slim queried reasonably.

"Something always gets ripped in a fight," Jess pointed out equally reasonably.

Slim sighed. Not for the first time, he was ruing Jess's insouciant attitude to a good fight. But it was obvious that the Texan was going to head for town as soon as the evening chores were completed. There was nothing for it but to accompany him.

"We can stay at the hotel and meet the girls when they get off the overnight train from Denver tomorrow morning," Jess suggested, sounding altogether too reasonable for Slim's peace of mind. "They can come back on the early stage and we'll arrive here with it in time to change the team. There won't be any extra work for Jonesy and the boys."

"Not unless y' get y' head broke again," Jonesy said morosely.

"Never mind my head!" Jess retorted. "It's this dar – dashed shirt I'm tryin' to make a hole in."

"Use scissors," Andy suggested brightly.

"That," Jess replied with dignity, "would be cheatin'."

 **ooooo**

Thus it was the two young men rode into Laramie the same evening. They stabled their horses at the Livery, since, according to Jess's plan, they would be staying overnight. Before they had even crossed the Livery yard, Jess's wish to get into a fight transpired.

It was not a very inspirational fight, but functioned well enough in terms of testing the shirt. Two drifters who were overnighting in Laramie and had just put up their horses, naturally knew no better than to decide to push around the young man wearing the fancy shirt.

After their first few insults, Jess just stopped in the middle of the yard and began to roll up the sleeves of the shirt. Slim moved aside and leaned on the corral rail. "Let me know if you want any help."

"Let me know if y' hear this durned shirt rip!"

It did not rip. The only thing damaged was the self-confidence of the two men who found themselves shortly eating the dust of the yard. Jess stood over them, rubbing the same dust off his gloves. He did not look annoyed, just rather bored. "Don't take it t'heart, fellas. Y' just happen to be my way of solvin' a difficult situation. Drop by the saloon later and I'll buy you a drink."

The partners strolled off along the main street in the direction of the saloon, leaving behind them a pair of battered but much wiser cowboys. They stopped at the hotel to reserve a room and then went to the Sheriff's Office to greet their friend, Mort Cory. The Sheriff was not impressed.

"Jess, if I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times! Don't go stirring up trouble!"

"Me?" Jess's assumed innocence almost matched the audacity of his shirt. Slim and Mort looked at each other in mutual agreement, before turning a combined gaze of complete skepticism on Jess. They both fully anticipated the aforementioned trouble.

"Don't you dare go anywhere near the saloon dressed like that!" Mort ordered.

"You gonna stop me, Sheriff?" A distinct challenge gleamed in Jess's eyes, which reflected the color of the shirt. After all he was looking for another fight, but maybe not one which would land him in a cell for the night. He continued quite accurately: "I don't think the law's on your side when y' give orders about clothes."

Mort knew he was right. It didn't render the situation any easier to deal with. "In that case, just make sure you don't get yourself killed until after midnight! I'm off duty then!"

"Killed?" Jess's expression of innocence never wavered. "I ain't aimin' to do anything of the kind. Besides, I've got Slim t'keep me in order."

Slim grimaced and gave a shrug which indicated all his frustration and worry, not to mention his past experience of trying to keep Jess in order when his partner had his mind set on a particular course of action.

Mort regarded the pair of them with a kind of affectionate exasperation. He decided to treat his young friends to a touch of the 'poor, over-worked, put-upon Sheriff'. Accordingly he growled at them: "Get along with you! Can't think why you drop in here unless it's just to drive me to a nervous breakdown and impede the course of law and order in this town. Out! Now!" He pointed dramatically to the door.

Jess grinned and Slim called his bluff: "Mort, nothing's going to break down while you're in office – certainly not law and order."

"Out!" Mort repeated. His eyes were twinkling as he added: "And take your good-for-nothing partner _and that_ _shirt of his_ out of here before I do find a reason to lock him up."

"Never let it be said we couldn't take a hint!" Jess was still grinning as he made a quick exit into the street, with Slim close behind him. The winking lights of the saloon beckoned. Or at any rate, they beckoned to Jess with a mischief of their own. He was not particularly concerned about the possibility of getting beaten up as long as he proved conclusively that this shirt definitely merited darning.

The effect of Jess's entrance into the bar was predictable in the extreme. Slim hadn't even stepped through the swing-doors behind him when the whistles and cat-calls and ribald ribbing started. Jess ignored it completely. He needed to get someone riled up enough to take a swing at him. Someone other than Slim. So he strolled over to the bar and deliberately pushed his way in between a couple of customers who were already looking sadly the worse for wear. It worked a treat.

"Hey, we ain't cozyin' up to y' dressed like that!"

The man who had spoken tried to move away from Jess's proximity, but only succeeded in stumbling and spilling the drink of his massive companion as he edged behind him.

"Yeah, look what y' done now!"

"Who, me?" Jess leaned casually against the bar and regarded the pair of them coolly. "Y' just clumsy as well as ugly-lookin'."

"That so, pretty boy?" The second man, who was now facing Jess, stopped leaning on the bar and rose to his full height. He was head and shoulders above the Texan. He balled his fists and his knuckles cracked alarmingly.

"Hey, you!" A third man, the one whom Jess had pushed aside and turned his back to, now poked him between the shoulder blades.

Jess continued to slump carelessly against the bar. He turned his head a fraction and said over his shoulder: "You got something t'contibute to this?"

"Yeah!" The man behind grabbed him by the shoulders and spun Jess round so they were face to face. "You know who that is y' were squaring up to?" His finger stabbed in the direction of the huge man.

Jess shrugged his hands off without the slightest effort, turned his back again and resumed his slumped stance. "Me? I ain't squarin' up to no-one."

"No! 'Cos you ain't got the nerve t' face Big John McGuire!" the third man yelled in his ear.

"Y' just a fancy shirt and no guts!" The man lurking behind McGuire was not above joining in the taunting when there was someone between him and Jess. It looked as if the three of them were getting about as riled up as Jess could have wished.

"Is that so?" A distinct smirk crossed Jess's face. "I figured he was just workin' up the nerve t' stand up t' me."

That did it. McGuire gave a bellow and swung a wild blow at Jess, which the Texan neatly parried.

Slim, who had pulled up a chair to a nearby table, said nothing, but could have been forgiven for heaving a long-suffering sigh. Hearing the altercation, Freddie the barman, who had been busy serving customers at the other end, came pounding down, intent on stopping trouble before it got out of hand. "Now just you remember, Jess Harper – anything you break, you pay for!"

"Me?" Total innocence again. "He started it, Freddie."

"Yeah, an' I'm gonna finish it - outside!" McGuire grabbed a handful of Jess's shirt and dragged him towards the door.

Jess leaned back hard, obviously hoping the shirt would rip. Instead all that happened was that his spurs scored some grooves in the floor. "Think y' can manage me on your own?" he baited his angry opponent. "Better get y' kid brothers to help you – if they're old enough t' fight like men!"

This jibe resulted in an unseemly stampede by the other two men and all four tumbled violently out of the doors. This time Slim really did sigh. He hadn't even managed to get a drink so far. He rose to his feet and strolled outside again, contriving to look as if he didn't care what happened to Jess.

"Let me know if you need help." Slim leaned against the hitching rail and watched the melee going on in the street with interest and even some amusement.

"Let me know when the shirt rips!"

It really wasn't fair. The three men might be big, but they were clumsy and not a little drunk. Hardly the types to make a good job of taking on Jess's honed muscle-power and lightning reflexes. Dust and hats sailed into the air as limbs flailed and fists flourished. It was difficult in the dusk and dust to see what was happening, but there was the sound of thudding as someone got in some hard punches to solid flesh. A body reeled out of the maelstrom and landed sprawling on the saloon steps. A second piled on top of it as if propelled there by a kick and a shove. The third man disappeared in a rush of stumbling footsteps.

Gradually the dust settled. It revealed Jess, triumphant if out of breath, and still clad in an intact shirt.

Slim bent down and picked something up off the ground. He held it out. "You dropped your hat."

"Thanks!" Jess slapped it back on and ran both hands over his clothing in a disbelieving manner. He scowled and groaned: "That was a waste of time! Come on, let's get a drink."

"You know what I think?" Slim asked as they strolled once more into the saloon. More whistles and cat-calls greeted them, but these had a rather tentative, possibly even admiring, note.

"No? What?" Jess caught Freddie's eye and ordered: "Bottle of whiskey, Freddie, please."

Slim was momentarily diverted. "Jess, we are not getting drunk tonight with ladies to escort tomorrow morning!"

"Afraid you'll oversleep with y' usual hangover?" Jess taunted him unkindly.

"No," Slim replied firmly. "I just think it's polite to wait until we've got them safely home."

"Until I've made some kind o' dent in this shirt, you mean!" Jess amended, but he turned to Freddie and said as he paid, "Just two glasses for now, Freddie. And put my name on the bottle, will y'?"

Freddie looked somewhat relieved at this. He got his money and at the same time minimized the risk of the damage a drunken Jess Harper could inflict on his furniture and customers. It was bad enough when he was sober!

"Yeah, about that dent," Slim continued where he had left off. "You know what I think?"

"No, and I ain't gonna unless y' get on and tell me!"

"I think you're going about it the wrong way."

Jess's face was a picture of bafflement and consternation. "The wrong way? What other way is there of fightin'?"

"You need to lose," Slim told him.

"Lose?" Jess thought hard about this. It was not a word with which he had much familiarity. "You mean kinda let someone beat me up?"

"Yeah. You keep winning. And there's not a crease in it. That is obviously a winning shirt."

"Well, if it's a winnin' shirt, I sure as hell ain't gonna lose in it!"

So much for that good idea.

Jess did, however, seem to have been deterred from picking any more fights, much to the relief of his partner, the bar staff and most of the customers. There were a number of strangers in town that night, but they were concentrating on getting drunk. These included the two Jess had beaten up in the Livery. He duly bought them a drink as he had promised, but his generosity was suspiciously received. Nothing much else happened for the rest of the evening. Slim concede to Jess's demands for a couple more whiskeys each and Jess won a pleasant amount at poker, which he did by playing a straight game. He never cheated unless someone else did first and most of Laramie's die-hard poker school had learned not to do so when playing with the Texan.

It was not until they were strolling quietly back to the hotel that the third fight occurred.

It was a whimper which alerted them. A child's whimper. Coming from the alley alongside the saloon. As one man, one unit, Slim and Jess turned towards the sound and the dark recess between the buildings. There was no way they were going to walk past such a sound and its implications.

The reality was worse than they had expected. Close to the opening of the alley they stumbled over the body of a young man, bloody and beaten: not dead but not for the want of someone trying. Pressed close into the shelter of the building were two children. The oldest, a boy, was perhaps seven years old – but his face was the face of a hundred years of experience. Nestling against him was a little girl, perhaps four years old, no more.

Beyond the body of the man and the crouching children, the alley was thick with close pressed bodies. Two of the saloon girls had evidently been on their way to their lodgings when they had been accosted by the gang of men who had been drinking so heavily in the saloon. Their intentions were brutal and unmistakable.

This was all that was needed to drive Slim and Jess into action. The whys and wherefores of the situation were irrelevant. What mattered was six men attacking two unprotected woman in front of small children and at the expense of a young man who had obviously tried to defend them.

Slim gave an almighty yell: "Mort!" as he threw himself into the midst of the offending men. Jess was only a hair's breadth behind him. Perhaps they had been spoiling for a real fight all evening or perhaps the call of justice and the protection of the vulnerable was just too much for them both.

By the time Mort arrived, it was all over bar some painful groans from the aggressors and heartfelt sobs of thanks from the two young women and the children. It did not take Mort long to arrest and run in the attackers and for the doc to be summoned to attend to the injured young man. Meanwhile, Slim and Jess had faded away to the hotel, leaving no trace of their involvement beyond the presence of the Sheriff and the doctor and a very relieved extended family. What it was all about, they did not find out until much later.

It was only when they had picked up the key and got into their hotel room that Jess assessed the outcome of his night's endeavors. As he undressed, he pulled his new shirt over his head and held it up, grumbling vehemently: "I just don't understand this! Three fights and there's not a single mark on this doggone shirt!"

 **ooooo**

The next morning found them up bright and early. Much too bright and early for Jess, who had only himself to blame for having to quit his bed in time to meet the overnight train from Denver.

The train pulled in with clouds of steam and smoke, which obscured completely their view of the alighting passengers. Nonetheless, Jess moved at once and set off down the platform to the third car. Sure enough, two bright heads, one burnished brown and one silver/gold, were already leaning out of the window.

Taken by surprise at this uncanny and unerring instinct, Slim found himself left behind. By the time he caught up, Jess had already lifted Sally down from the steps and enveloped her in a far from brotherly hug! But it was only to provoke Slim. They both knew perfectly well Sally was looking for the tall fair figure who was never far from Jess's side and Jess had already locked eyes with the girl behind her. Sally was so preoccupied with her own feelings that she didn't even notice the shirt.

Jess let her go and, as she moved eagerly to greet Slim, turned his attention to the young woman still standing on the steps of the carriage. Chantal Picard figured that being taller than him for once might give her the advantage momentarily. Besides, she had taken care to dress with some practicality. She wanted him to appreciate this, maybe even utter a few words of praise for the fact that she did – very occasionally – take notice of his orders, which had been delivered in no uncertain manner on almost every occasion they had met.

There was no such reaction.

"What the hell have y' done to this shirt?" Jess demanded. "It's damn' well indestructible!"

Chantal folded her arms and favored him with her most severe expression. She turned his own oft-spoken words back on him. "I'm waiting!"

Jess reached up, took her by the waist and lifted her off the train, before swinging her round in a swirling circle. Chantal's head was spinning as he deposited her on the ground and not just from the motion either. Jess held her at arm's length, looking her over with a proprietary and amused expression.

"Oh, yeah. Sure is nice to see you," he murmured obediently, "como siempre!" And no sooner had he said so than he snapped out his question again. "Now, what the hell is goin' on with this shirt?"

Chantal returned the look, working hard to keep her intense desire to chuckle under control. Instead she ran her eye up and down him, before saying gravely, "Jess, I know you hate white shirts, but isn't this going a bit far?"

"Not nearly as far as I'd like to chuck it!" he retorted. "It is the toughest shirt I've ever worn. Y' must've put a spell on it."

"Me?" Chantal was distinctly and genuinely puzzled.

"Yeah, you. You sent it. Done a hard day's work and three fights in it and the darn'd thing's still as good as new!"

"Darns certainly don't seem to be necessary," she agreed mischievously, "but I didn't send it. Tú entiendes?"

"You didn't?" Both eyebrows shot up as Jess's bewilderment was evident all over his face. "So how come that card from Cameron, Kirt and whatsit said it was sent on your instructions?"

The truth dawned.

"I didn't send _this_ shirt," Chantal told him firmly. "I picked out a good, tough buckskin which it would be _darned_ hard for me to get a needle through. Que mas haria? And it wasn't meant to arrive until Christmas!"

At this point, peals of laughter broke out from Slim and Sally, who had been watching the altercation and struggling to contain their amusement. When he'd stopped laughing sufficiently, Slim strode over to his partner, clapped him on the shoulder still clad in an intact turquoise spotted shirt and said cheerfully: "Come on, I think you need a cup of coffee – or six!"

"Yeah – and the bottle of whiskey with my name on it!" Jess reminded him.

This earned a certain amount of female protest at the idea of whiskey for breakfast, but Slim promised to make his partner keep the bottle until a more suitable time, even if Jess did think he was entitled to it for all he had suffered. Slim picked up Sally's luggage, offered her his free arm and, as they exchanged gleeful grins, led the way out of the station in the direction of the breakfast.

Behind them, Jess's voice rose in an indignant growl as realization of the true situation dawned on him: "Just a minute! Y' mean I've been wearin' this darn'd shirt all day long for nothing!"

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* * *

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Notes:

Ropa adecuada la próxima vez! - Suitable clothes the next time.

Como siempre. - As always

Tú entiendes? - You understand?

Que mas haria ? - What else would I do?

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This story refers to events in ' _Fortress of Darkened Stars'._ For a full list of stories in this AU, check on my profile page.


	6. Chapter 6

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 **Shirt Tale 6**

 **Hold On to This Shirt**

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"There's a parcel for you, Jess."

"Didn't hear no-one arrivin'?"

"No."

They both stood on the porch, gazing at the parcel in Slim's hands.

It was like no parcel they had ever seen before. There was no string or other fastening. Indeed it was impossible to see where anything could have been inserted and sealed inside the smooth silver wrapping. There was no address. Just the name 'Jess Harper' on the outside. The name had not been written. It appeared to have been printed like a newspaper or book onto the slippery surface of the parcel.

"Here!" Slim held it out. For some reason, he was uneasy about having it in his hands a moment longer than he had to.

Jess took the parcel gingerly as if he felt it might explode at any minute. Then he just stood there, holding it out in front of him like a votive offering. But it was a gift. A gift not from the gods, but from the future. Their past experiences made them both instantly aware of this.

"Go on. Open it!" Slim urged after a minute or so of inaction.

"Yeah." Jess gave himself a shake. He assumed the appearance of nonchalance. It was fake and they both knew that as well. He turned towards the door of the house, but changed his mind, as if he did not want to take whatever was in the parcel into their home. Instead he laid it on one of the chairs on the porch. He was about to try to rip it open, but the moment his fingers touched the wrapping with such an intention there was a faint hissing sound as a slit appeared along the length of it.

Jess looked at Slim. Usually he was much the more reckless of the two of them when faced with unusual challenges, but this time he was uncertain. He did not want the life of the relay station and its family invaded by something beyond their control.

Slim returned the look steadily. "Go on," he encouraged. "They can't want to harm us. We're too useful."

"Y' can say that again!" Jess agreed. "But every time it's us sortin' out a whole load of trouble not of our own makin'."

"Jess, trouble sticks to you like a bee on molasses!" Slim smiled. "Just find out what's in there. It can't be any worse than the other times."

"Y' reckon?" Jess was not convinced, but willing to be guided by Slim's common sense for once.

He put his hand to the slit and drew out something made of a soft, silky material. He lifted it and shook it out.

It was a shirt. It was iridescent. A pale, shimmering grey-blue. It had silver spots.

The material in Jess's hands seemed to change and flow as the light caught it. It was almost impossible to focus on it, as if the fluidity of the material and its pattern rendered the shirt virtually invisible.

A piece of something which resembled paper fluttered down from the open slit in the parcel. Slim picked it up and handed it to Jess. Leaning over his partner's shoulder, he read the printed message with him:

' _After considerable debate, it is the decision of the relevant authorities that it is appropriate for you to retain possession of this chameleoshirt. Their decision has been made because the enclosed techniform is now imprinted with your genetic signature and, as a result, is activated only when you are wearing it, thereby rendering it of no further use in this century. It is also their judgement that you should be granted possession of it as a token of your contribution to recent activities in the Lacertilia Sector and in acknowledgement that you have earned the right to wear it. I am asked to draw to your attention to the fact that the properties of the chameleoshirt will not be permanently functional in the 19_ _th_ _Century.'_

There was no signature, but the style was enough to bring a grin of recognition to both their faces.

"What the hell does all that mean?" Jess asked laughingly. "I can understand ' _it_ ' and ' _the_ ' and ' _and_ ', but the rest might just as well be Chinese!"

Slim laughed too. "I think it means you can hold on to it," he explained, "but it may not work for ever."

"Just as well," his partner responded unexpectedly. "Nothing should work for ever, even something like this. If it did, it'd only land us in a whole load more trouble we don't need."

Slim grinned inwardly at the mere notion of Jess avoiding trouble, but just nodded and agreed: "It's pretty astounding to see what it does, even though we've got used to that kind of thing. Maybe it's better kept until the next time we get called out?"

Jess gave a disgusted snort at the thought of any such re-occurrence. He looked down at the amazing material again, recalling the assignment and circumstances which led to him first being given it.

It had all begun in the early hours of one morning. Sliding sleepily from his bunk, he'd struggled into his pants, then automatically reached down his gun-belt from the bunk-post and hitched it on. He had begun to search, as usual, for a moderately unbattered shirt. Before he'd even found one or pulled on his boots, there had been the familiar hideous sense of dislocation, dragging him hurtling through space and time. The next second – or so it seemed - he had found himself standing barefoot and shirtless in a brightly lit faintly humming room...

 **ooooo**

"Where the hell is my partner!"

The question rang through the control deck of the Inter Galactic Raptor, _Stealth,_ with all the force of the temporal dislocation waves which had just shaken it.

Commandant Delaney, Alpha-Exec of Cross Temporal Central Control, took a firm grip on his temper, his dignity and his trans-time authority. A stride took him face to face with the angry young man who had just appeared so abruptly.

"If you ever did anything according to the book, you'd have arrived together in the right place at the right time," he snarled. "Is your flagrant disobedience of my orders habitual?"

It took the young man several seconds to translate this rather pompous description. Then a feral grin twisted his lips as he answered simply: "Yeah!"

There were some appreciative but well-concealed grins from the Flight Captain and crew of the IGR _Stealth_ at an answer any of them would have been proud of. The domineering methods of CTCC officers were well known and heartily disliked by Raptor crews; others, it was apparent, felt the same way.

They took stock of the new arrival. Depending on your viewpoint, he was either 165lb of sheer trouble or an outrageously good-looking dark-haired young man clad in nothing but a pair of antiquated leg coverings which fitted in a manner equal to any modern flexicloth. They certainly left very little to the imagination.

Delaney was glaring at him in disgust. "One day someone's going to tell me why I have to put up with a couple of primitive, ill-disciplined, uneducated barbarians in my sphere of command!"

The gleam in the stranger's bright blue eyes flared with scorn. He stepped right into Delaney's space and growled: " 'Cos you need us t' do y' dirty work for you!"

Delaney folded his arms. It might have been to assert his authority and superior standing. It might have been to restrain himself from the regressive impulse to sling a punch at this aggravating young man. It was more probably an indication of his intention to exert the formidable power of his mind on the one opposing him. Somehow it only looked strangely defensive. "Need you?" he began, but got no further.

"Yeah, need us! You ain't got the skill nor th' experience to survive in a wilderness." The stranger's tone was derisive, but quickly reverted to his former anger. "Now, if y' value your skin, tell me where the hell my partner is!"

"Are you threatening me?"

"I ain't the type to threaten."

Without the need for any mind-contact between the crew and the young time-traveler, there wasn't a soul on the control deck who doubted this statement - except Delaney, who really should have known better. Seconds later, he managed to compound his initial error in the worst possible way. Delaney was six foot four in his stocking feet and his physical fitness was as impressive as mensanacorp technology could achieve. He was contemptuous of any stature less than his.

"Don't even think about trying to force information from me, you arrogant little bastard!" The words were accompanied by a flick of mind-power as another might use a whip. Several of the more sensitive crew winced mentally, but the stranger seemed to deflect the blow automatically.

Delaney had lost it big time to use such language in front of a Flight Captain and crew whom he had never encountered before. The Cosmic Fleet authorities might bow to his superior capabilities, but one of the strengths of the Raptor Class personnel was their unpredictable independence – you were never quite sure which way the crew would jump. Like now. Delaney was, after all, on this Raptor not as a guest but as a transient temporal visitor, however powerful his own status and however binding the Protocol supporting his mission. Under normal circumstances, he would have treated them all with the cold, controlled civility befitting his rank and authority. His uncharacteristic reaction said much for the provocation the young man was capable of putting him under. But the impact of his angry disregard for etiquette and discipline was as nothing to the outcome of his rash use of the L-word.

"Just watch me!"

There was a distinct impression that lightning had flashed through the control deck. Those with empathetic e.s.p. capabilities mentally put their hands over their psychic ears. Nearly everyone took an involuntary half-step back without realising what they had done – a response sentient beings demonstrate instinctively in order to get out of the way of charging bulls, flying bullets or blasts from a biodestruct bazooka.

While these reactions were still taking place all around him, the young man knocked Delaney flying with a right hook to the face. Delaney staggered back, obviously surprised by the power of the punch, and landed with a crash in a fortunately unoccupied suspensor chair. As he struggled to regain his footing, he attempted to parry the fusillade of blows rained on him by his furious antagonist. But there are some rare times when advanced martial arts skills can simply be overwhelmed by sheer rage. The young man, driven by an obviously potent and deeply personal loyalty, certainly exemplified rage at its most dangerous. Into the bargain, he had just been deliberately insulted in a particularly dismissive way.

In such a situation the Flight Captain would normally have intervened. It was his vessel and his control deck and he did not permit brawls, whether the antagonists were under his command or not; his crew were only too ready for a scrap as it was. It was irritating that he was constrained by his latest orders from taking Commandant Delaney to task in no uncertain manner, regardless of the man's rank or his mission. In a split second of instant recall, those orders rang through the Flight Captain's mind.

 _Protocol 5: PRIORITY_ : _no mental interaction with trans-temporals unless absolutely necessary; physical contact to be avoided at all costs unless also in the same transit timespace; officers and crew to respect CTCC authority and facilitate mission activity at all times unless integrity of the vessel threatened._

What those orders had not warned him was that his control deck was about to be temporally dislocated nor that the arrival of the cross-time travelers was going to wreak havoc therein.

Much as he and his crew enjoyed a rumble, havoc was not something this particular Flight Captain was going to permit in these circumstances. The fight had barely commenced before he had reached a swift decision. Several of his control deck crew, despite being under very specific orders, were clearly restraining themselves with difficulty from making it a free-for-all. He heaved an inward sigh. No matter how much fun that would be normally, right now it was to be avoided at all costs.

"Remain at your stations!" the Flight Captain's voice rang out crisply. He could not afford for any of them to come in physical contact with the two temporal intruders. His fierce gaze focused on the Duty Security Officer, who had, of course, hit the High Alert key as soon as the altercation had begun.

The control deck portal hissed open. There was a rush of air accompanied by almost invisible movement. Only the very sharp-eyed and the knowledgeable would have seen a fully armed Assault team surge onto the control deck with drawn weapons, automatically taking defensive positions as they did so. Their chameleoflage coveralls, mind-keyed to maximum, blended almost perfectly with the surroundings; there was no sense in making more of a target of themselves than was absolutely necessary. They assessed the situation in an instant, but the Flight Captain's reactions were even quicker.

"Hold your fire!" he barked out. "Protocol 5. Low stun only!"

A bright beam instantly flashed across the intervening space, aimed at the aggressive young stranger. It had absolutely no effect. The power appeared to strike some invisible barrier and be dissipated, rather than deflected. This was unfortunate for Delaney, but very fortunate for everyone else, which was why the Flight Captain had taken the precaution of ordering 'low stun'.

"More power, Captain?" queried the Duty Lieutenant who had fired.

The Flight Captain nodded. "Take it up to 3."

Exactly the same transpired.

"Do we go to 5 now?"

The Flight Captain shook his head. "Negative. Unless you want to take us all out too?" Such action, quite apart from being in direct contravention of the Protocol 5, might result in untold temporal destruction.

The Duty Lieutenant went pale, suitably rebuked by this timely reminder. The Flight Captain swept his forceful gaze and even more forceful thought-order round his over-eager crew, making sure they all took in the full import of this exchange.

Meanwhile, the young man had wrestled his opponent to the floor and was doing things to various parts of his anatomy which looked extremely painful. He alternated this with intermittently throttling him or banging his head on the floor or sometimes both.

The Flight Captain continued to consider coolly the forces and resources at his disposal. The fight had to be stopped, not least because Commandant Delaney appeared to be getting the worst of it, but direct physical or mental intervention was prohibited and short-range weapons seemed to be ineffective. He turned to the officer whose responsibility was analysis and prediction.

"Flight Kâhin Rune. Cognizance?" he demanded brusquely.

The only member of the crew who had entirely ignored the whole incident unfolded qimself from the station where qe had been working. The Kâhin was a tall, slender being who nonetheless gave the impression of being made out of spun steel. Qis appearance was para-humanoid, but the gaze of those wide, glittering, leaf-shaped eyes, without pupil or white and ever changing in color, belied any very close affinity between this being and the rest of the universe's sentient species. Long ago, all individuals of qis defeated race had been given the derisory designation ' _Rational Ultra-complex Non-human Entity'._ Attitudes had changed since then, especially amongst Raptor crews, but ' _Rune_ ' was the designation qe and all the remnant of qis race retained – by name, by rank, by qeir inherently thoughtful nature.

 _It was always disconcerting,_ the Flight Captain reflected momentarily, _actually to be able to see someone's brain working._

The Kâhin regarded the struggle on the floor with dispassionate scrutiny. Sure enough, qis eyes displayed intricate patterns of color shot through with bright threads of energy. The predominant shade was a light amber, which the crew had come to recognize as a medium level of interest and analysis. It was reassuring in that qe did not consider the situation of sufficient threat to conceal qis thought patterns.

After only a second's consideration, Rune reported: "He is not wearing a shield. That is impossible in temporal transit, even if his era possessed such technology. The temporal signature is unusual in his immediate vicinity, indicating interaction with the pulsegun energy, but without directional pathways leading back to the deflecting mechanism. A preliminary assessment confirms that there is no identifiable means of generating defensive power. There is only an early example of a projectile weapon which he wears like an article of clothing. It is a highly unlikely source."

"Perhaps he doesn't believe in weapons that stun?" A slim, dark man, lounging against the console on the other side of the control deck, spoke softly but with distinct humor in his velvet-rich voice. "Perhaps they have no meaning for him and so no physical reality."

The Flight Captain looked at him with a very deliberate frown. It was Taylan, the Dumenchi, the _Stealth's_ trickster, who had spoken. Entertainer, musician, joker and excellent empath, it was his job to challenge their assumptions, stimulate their morale and, above all, to remind them all not to take themselves too seriously.

 _But … seriously_? _There were moments!_ The Flight Captain turned his attention back to his problem.

"That may truly be, Taylan, but meanwhile he is also throttling the life out of a top ranking officer of the CT-Control!" The Flight Captain's stern gaze swept round the faces of his senior personnel as he tacitly forbade them to laugh at the Dumenchi's tongue-in-cheek assessment. "Suggestions, anyone?"

"It is probable that the altercation can be terminated," the Kâhin responded at once. "With your permission, Captain?"

"So said, so done."

The Kâhin advanced on the two wrestling men. Tension ratcheted up by several notches as qe did so. Everyone knew that Rune could perfectly well separate the combatants with a simple hand-grip, such was qis innate strength. Instead, much to their relief, Rune just sank to qis knees so that qis face was on the same level as the attacker. Qe said, with qis usual air of complete detachment, "You are hardly likely to gain any information from the Commandant if you persist in this method of obtaining it."

The control deck became totally still as everyone involuntarily held their breath. The young man himself drew a deep breath in as his hands relaxed their grip. He looked up and his bright blue eyes locked with Rune's glittering amber ones.

"Yeah. You're right." He was on his feet in one lithe movement. He bent down, grabbed Delaney by the front of his tunic and hauled him upright. "You got ten seconds, Delaney, before I refuse t' do anything about whatever mess you've hauled us here to deal with."

This slightly more subtle approach gave Delaney a breathing space. It sounded as if he was choking as his lungs heaved in an effort to gain air. But there was not enough to enable him to reply and, when the dark-haired stranger said ten seconds, he meant precisely that!

He released his grip, allowing Delaney to slump backwards once more into the suspensor chair. The young man turned his back on the gasping Commandant and stood hands on hips, a stance which left no doubt about his attitude, not to mention focusing the eye on areas of considerable temptation. He was still breathing heavily, the rise and fall of the hard muscles of his chest catching the light because the physical violence of the last few minutes had put a faint sheen of sweat on his deeply tanned skin. He rubbed a forearm across his face, obviously forgetting that he wasn't wearing a shirt, and ran a hand through his short, rough hair. Then he addressed the Kâhin, for whom he seemed to have developed a totally unexpected degree of trust.

"Sure could use a whiskey before you send me home."

Rune regarded him thoughtfully as qe analysed the further data obtainable on such close inspection. This ought to have been intimidating as qis glittering amber gaze was both powerful and penetrating. The young man just stared right back, a hint of mischief lurking in his blue eyes.

"Neither request can be executed at this juncture," Rune informed him gravely.

"You sayin' alcohol's been banned again?" The young man undoubtedly had some experience of what history had done to the pleasures of life at intervals over the centuries.

"Only in operational areas," Rune indicated the surrounding control deck with a flick of qis long fingers, "and while on duty." There were quite a few more grins at this, since they had nearly all been off-duty until the Protocol 5 was served on them.

"I ain't on duty - Delaney's made sure of that!" The young man glowered over his shoulder for a second at the Commandant, who was mopping the blood running from his nose. "So he ain't callin' the tune!" He turned back to the Kâhin, cocked his head sideways and whistled a snatch of plaintive melody.

Behind them the Dumenchi, Taylan, laughed and, being the one person on board whose expertise was musical, said confidently: "Appalachian!"

Rune's eye color darkened, changing to the magenta indicative of deep knowledge retrieval. Qe delivered qis analysis with an odd trace of what might have been humor in qis tone. Odd, because, as far as anyone knew, Rune had not chosen to assimilate much of this emotion. "Correct. An Appalachian tune, used to record relationships during military conflict. Specifically, a song from the Civil War or, depending on one's viewpoint, the Great Rebellion or the War of Southern Independence, in Earth America during the 19th Century. Such music has, contrary to the normal effects of historical transmission, transcended its own age and persisted in a pure form in a number of cultures."

"That's right. A Rebel song! ' _I'll eat when I'm hungry, I'll drink when I'm dry_.' " The last words were sung softly to the tune. Then the stranger suggested: "Let's find a bar somewhere non-operational when y' off duty and I'll stand y' that whiskey."

This offer reduced the crew to flabbergasted amusement as they watched the unlikely rapport between the serious, ageless alien and the seriously volatile young human. The stranger seemed utterly unperturbed by coming face to face with the austerely beautiful features and glittering eyes of the Tcigorian exile. He just looked Rune up and down with a cheeky grin, then added: "After all, y' sure are better lookin' than some of the critters I've run into in whatever the hell century this is. Better manners, too!"

"Your offer is intended generously," Rune conceded, still with that very faint trace of humor. "The consumption of alcohol is not, however, one of my recreational indulgences."

"I guess I can drink yours as well," the young man informed qim, grinning some more.

"No need!" There was a swift blur of movement as Taylan executed a couple of backflips to land faultlessly beside them. "I'm more than willing to help out my knowledgeable friend here by drinking his share."

The stranger turned to give him a long, thorough look, taking in the sinewy strength of an acrobat's body clad all in black today, the long black hair with a single silver flash in it and the brilliant jade green eyes. Eyes which coruscated with mischief as he added, "We can swap life-stories over the next round."

"That would be …" the young man paused: then there was another of those gestalten flickers, "… tricky."

The choice of words brought a gasp of surprise from someone. Taylan just laughed again and responded: "In the trick or treat sense?"

"No. In the _I don't have the time to spare explainin'_ sense!" the young man informed him. He was beginning to look riled again.

"Leave him alone, Magpie," the Flight Captain told Taylan shortly.

Since the fight had been successfully ended, he flicked a hand-signal to the Assault team, who drifted away unobtrusively; chameleoflage really was a very useful thing. The Flight Captain wished the whole situation would vanish as easily for he had, by now, had more than enough of it! He was distinctly annoyed at Delaney for turning his control deck into some kind of transit lounge for time travelers, just because the _Stealth_ happened to be conveniently undertaking a dormant recharging orbit around Lacertilia 3. This was exacerbated considerably by the man's supercilious assumption of supremacy, his casual use of mind-force and his sneering insults directed at someone who was presumably part of Delaney's own command. And if the Flight Captain was having to ramp up his self-control, he knew that every one of his hot-blooded crew would be doing the same.

These powerful considerations did not, however, show at all in his voice as he issued decisive orders: "Flight Ensign Takahashi, please escort Commandant Delaney to the Reviv. Ask for a scan to make sure he hasn't had his skull fractured or sustained other brain damage." His tone did not reveal his skepticism about the existence of the said brain. He just continued: "Remain with the Commandant at all times. When the Healkin is satisfied as to his ability to continue his duties, conduct him to Gather Cabin 2."

The Flight Ensign saluted with elaborate care; the tenor of the gesture itself indicated to her Captain and comrades, without any projection of her thoughts, the scornful estimate she held of the man in her charge. She indicated to the battered Commandant that he should follow her.

Delaney drew what remained of his dignity about him and fixed the Flight Captain with a gimlet glare. "I trust your medical crew are aware of the injunctions in the Protocol 5 regarding my mission? I have no wish to be subjected to your primitive and doubtless less than effectual methods!"

The Flight Captain was not easily provoked to physical retaliation. Still less would he take any such action in front of his crew on his own control deck and while in command of his vessel, unless he saw a definite advantage from it. The fact that somewhere in his make-up he had red-headed genes did not mean he was a walking cliché as far as temper was concerned. Besides, the arrogant intruder had already received a very satisfactory beating from someone with the temporal immunity to dish it out. That was enough.

A sardonic smile touched his lips as he said evenly: "We are, of course, aware of the gene transmission paradox." Mentally he added: _And I hope to hell you're not one of my descendants!_

Delaney turned on his heel, intending to stalk off the control deck as if he owned it.

The primitive, ill-disciplined, uneducated barbarian was having none of this. He swung round into Delaney's path and uttered, with chill menace, a single word: "Where?"

Delaney had no intention of answering, whatever the consequences. This despite the fact that he knew perfectly well he had stretched the hospitality of the IGR _Stealth_ and the tolerance of its Flight Captain to their limits. In addition, he had quite possibly done considerable damage to cross-temporal co-operation, despite the undoubted awe-inducing power which CTCC commanded across time and space.

He blamed the lack of his usual glacial control on the infuriatingly insubordinate Rapid Response Team member who was in the wrong place at the wrong time and definitely in the wrong kind of mood. _What exactly was it about this particular young man? What made Delaney deviate from his true nature, whose behavioral patterns had been created by several hundred years of ruthless discipline which subordinated the individual to the needs of his civilization? What made him strike out in the wholly primitive, independent manner he had been taught to despise? What reduced him to the level of the young man who so challenged him?_

The young man in question was exerting great will-power in restraining himself from further violence. Those with strong e.s.p. were aware that this effort was somehow morphing into considerable psychic pressure on Delaney. The latter was so surprised at this that he succumbed automatically to the unexpected but familiar mind-direction and found himself giving the required information almost before he realized it.

"He's below, on the third planet of the Lacertilia system. Where you'd be if you ever did anything right!"

The young man's chin lifted and his jaw clenched. "I'd say mistakes in transportin' us are your responsibility, Delaney. How long?"

"How long what?"

"How long before y' get round to settin' me down there with him?"

"As soon as my business is finished here!" the Commandant snapped, tightening his mental defenses as well as his physical stance. "You'll get there all in good time, Harper."

"He'd better be in good shape after transit!" The demand was delivered with a growl and another unexpected surge of psychic pressure driven by profound apprehension.

Delaney glared back, but was forced to admit: "He's no worse than you are."

"Good!" The young man looked mightily relieved as he added: "Time enough for a drink, then!" He stepped aside and let Delaney pass. Behind the Commandant's back, the Flight Ensign gave the victor a congratulatory wink.

"Harper?" someone in the background observed quietly. "Wasn't that once a travelling musician?"

"Explains the singing," another of the crew agreed.

"That'll give the Magpie someone to play with, then!" This last remark was swiftly followed by the sound of a smart slap being delivered to the back of the speaker's head.

The murmured comments had also reached the sharp ears of their subject. He swiveled on one bare heel, his face impassive but his fierce blue gaze raking across those he now confronted. There was a moment of intense stand-off, crackling with mental as well as optical energy. Then someone laughed appreciatively: "Watch it, Taylan, he might just be too much for you to handle!"

At this, the stranger's lips twitched in an engagingly crooked half smile and one eyebrow quirked up in amusement before he turned back to Rune.

The Flight Captain, intimately alert to the mood of his crew, was conscious of a high degree of responsiveness to this good-looking, scarcely clad interloper on the part of both female and male crew members. While he had no personal objection to this – the young man certainly exuded the kind of wildness which was exceeding attractive – the crew were technically still off-duty so he did not want things to get out of hand. At least, not until they had got rid of Commandant Delaney and he, of course, would be taking with him the object of so much intense and doubtless highly erotic imagination.

"Flight Kâhin, perhaps would you be good enough to conduct our … visitor … to Gather Cabin 2?" The place where he had managed to persuade the inquisitive, observant Wing Captain, who had been instrumental in delivering the Protocol 5 to the _Stealth_ , to make her base. The Raptor had been engaged in business totally unconnected with the objectives of Cosmic Command and that was the way he wanted it to stay. The fact that the IG Predator which had delivered the Wing Captain was still lurking somewhere in the vicinity was causing him serious concern. _Why hadn't she just returned to her vessel and taken herself off to the inner circle of Cosmic Command?_ _And what the hell had she got to talk to Delaney about?_ The Flight Captain projected his thought as skilfully as his training enabled, willing Rune to pick up the fact that he wanted information about this meeting, particularly how the independent and less than regular operations of the _Stealth_ might be affected.

Receiving an affirmative hand-signal from Rune, he proceeded to redirect everyone's focus to the Protocol 5 and its implications: "All other crew, duty stations. Let's wake this Raptor up!"

"Consider it done!" a cheerful chorus assured him as the crew leapt to their tasks.

The flurry of movement drew the attention of the young man, or Harper as he had now been identified, to the full extent of the control deck. Suspensor chairs were scooted back into position. Work stations began to wink into illuminated readiness. Vid-screens glowed. And the huge shutters covering the forward view-port rolled up.

The stranger took a hesitant step, quite unlike his previous fluid, powerful movement, towards the center of the control deck. Its semi-circular forward wall had suddenly become transparent. Against the vast curtain of the cosmos, distant stars stood out like diamond points. Much closer at hand, the wide curve of the planet below moved with infinitesimal speed as it occupied the left-hand segment of what had been an apparently solid wall.

The young man's eyes widened. He looked round slowly from right to left. If he had not been deeply tanned, his skin would have gone a nice shade of green.

Taylan, sensing his distress, moved swiftly towards him, but checked a natural impulse to touch him in support. Instead he used all the power of his voice and his thoughts in reassurance. "It's perfectly safe. You're all right!"

The young man shook his head. The motion seemed to affect his balance, but he controlled the wobble immediately so no-one was quite certain it had happened. Instead he just froze on the spot, his horrified gaze locked on the planet beneath him.

The Dumenchi had halted in mid-step, as if an invisible barrier had reared up beyond which the young man was enclosed in some other time and space. This was perhaps just as well, given a natural human instinct to administer physical comfort.

Taylan glanced over his shoulder at the Kâhin, who, after all, was there to provide strategic analysis. "This one's certainly a challenger! First he deflects pulsegun fire. Now he throws up a psychic and physical shield. Blocks us out completely! How in subspace is he doing it? He's just an ordinary American from the 19th century, isn't he? He knows zilch about this stuff."

Rune's eyes had reverted to qeir normal golden color and qe showed no sign of responding to Taylan's concerns. Instead qe remarked with gentle irony: "You asserted that he did not believe in weapons which stun."

"I did and, in a way I don't understand, it's true.'

"But it must be more than that, if he can effect physical isolation too," the Flight Captain broke in. "Feel free to analyse some more, Rune."

The Flight Kâhin's eyes went clear violet. The color of speculation. "There are several possibilities. He is strongly rooted in his own time. The temporal field around him may fluctuate to such an extent that he is not always completely in this time. Then he also has extraordinary confidence and determination. This makes him is highly independent. He does not easily surrender to the will of others."

"That's pretty obvious," the Flight Captain pointed out. "As soon as someone like Delaney tries to put mind-pressure on him, he flips a mental switch and everything shuts down so no-one can even tell him the time of day." Though this sounded like a criticism, it was an innate quality which he valued highly in his own crew and, if employed judiciously, found extremely useful.

Rune dipped qis head in acknowledgement of this unspoken fact; then qe considered a little further. "His historical era also determines his behavior. He comes from a time when many things were simply resolved by physical conflict, so his natural reaction will be to prevent physical interference and, as an unconscious adjunct, mental interference by anyone else. Above all, he resents being dragged without warning from his own time into this one."

"Who's to blame him?" Taylan murmured sympathetically. "And he has immense love for this partner he's seeking," he added perceptively.

The Flight Captain nodded in agreement. "A life-loyalty, that much is obvious."

"I wonder how long they've been together and if they have ever been separated before?" Taylan was speculating too.

"Be careful what you presume in the area of personal relationships," the Kâhin warned them. "19th Century Earth had different social constructs. They had not yet developed your universal tolerance and flexibility in such matters. But you are correct. He is very loyal. And," qe added as an after-thought, "if I may quote from one of your early dramatists: ' _more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron'_."

"But I still don't see how any of this enables him to use mind-power to control his environment?" the Flight Captain objected.

Rune gave a very slight shrug. "We know nothing whatsoever about CT-Control training. And, of course," qe paused as if surprised that qe had to state the obvious, "we may just be seeing the workings of a technology developed in the 24th century and far superior to our own. My best calculation, however, is that we are witnessing intermittent temporal dislocation."

"Great! So what the Pleiades are we supposed to do about that?" Taylan muttered.

"I wasn't aware it was up to you to do anything, Magpie?" his Captain retorted with a grin. "Unless, of course, you're contemplating taking this young man under your wing?"

"I'm willing, if it keeps CT-Control out of our hair – and off his back!"

The back in question, turned as it was towards them, presented smooth skin over strongly molded muscle, relatively unmarked compared with the numerous scars evident on his chest and arms. Accustomed as they were to energy-based weapons and healing skin regeneration, the marks of bullet wounds were something of a shock. The left side of the rib-cage showed faint signs of a break, roughly treated. Otherwise the smooth slide of the dark skin was broken only by some thin scars below the shoulder-blades – and the observers were familiar enough with such punishment to recognize signs from an old lashing. The distribution of the scars spoke not only of the stranger's innate unruliness, but was proof, if anyone needed it, that this young man had taken whatever life had thrown at him face on.

Right now he was facing the sight of a whole planet far below. If his taut back muscles and the faint tremor running through them were anything to go by, he was not enjoying it as much as might be expected.

The Flight-Captain considered for a moment. Quite apart from his role as the Dumenchi, Taylan, like many of the crew, didn't fly by regulations. Sometimes this was an advantage. He gave Taylan a searching look. Then, ignoring one or two sniggers in the background, he nodded briskly. "So said, so done."

At the same moment, their interesting psychological and metaphysical discussion was broken abruptly as the young man in question gave violent shudder. The invisible barrier they sensed around him disappeared as he returned to normal time. He gulped out: "Hell! I'm gonna throw up!"

"Not on my control deck!" the Flight Captain snapped instantly. "Get him out of here – now!"

"To Gather Cabin 2," Rune affirmed.

Taylan gave a snort of laughter. "You mean to the ajax – quickly!"

"Just get a move on, will you!" their Captain glared at the escorting pair. "And for the sake of all our self-control, someone give him a shirt!"

He might not have issued any such command if he had known the consequences attached to the shirt Jess Harper subsequently ended up wearing.

Meanwhile, since precognition failed miserably to warn him, it was just a relief that their volatile visitor was willing to follow the lead of his escorts through the control deck portal. As the trio disappeared under the arch into the interstices of the Raptor, the Flight Captain and his crew heard Harper's deep growl turn apologetic as he offered an explanation.

"Remind me not to look outside next time! I never could stand heights!"

 **ooooo**

Vivid recollection flooded through Slim and Jess as they gazed down at the shirt together. Of course, they were not supposed to remember any part of their work as a CTRR team, but they did. Slim said it was all due to Jess's inherent doggone stubbornness and resistance to thought-control: he would certainly remember just because someone had tried to stop him. Slim wondered if it was catching or if he was just so in tune with his partner that the system treated them as one entity as far as their minds were concerned.

"It was nice of the Kâhin to make sure you got it," he commented.

"Yeah. But I bet Delaney must be foaming at the mouth with rage," Jess grinned. "Good job Rune's in a different century, 'cause having to deal with the consequences would be a bit unfair."

"I'm sure the Kâhin's more than capable of doing so, but if you're really worried, you could always send it back." Slim patted the parcel-wrapping and smiled. It promptly disappeared in a flash of trans-temporal energy.

"No chance to now. Guess I have to keep it." Jess shook out the shirt and held it up against himself. The material rippled and surged, enveloping his body so that it fitted snugly as if it was all he had on.

"Darn! I'd forgotten it did that!" Jess looked down at his torso, now camouflaged with the shimmering silver-spotted fabric. "That's torn it."

"As I recall, it's pretty well indestructible," Slim pointed out, remembering the number of fights and tight places in which Jess had proved his right to wear the shirt.

"No, I mean that's torn it as far as work is concerned. I can't be seen outside wearing this shirt."

"So take it off!" Slim ordered.

"That's the problem," his partner grinned. "There's a trick to making it come off. And I can't remember how."

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Notes:

This is purely a tale about getting a shirt. I have very little idea (at the moment) about what happened on Lacertilia 3, so it will be a while before this turns into a fully-fledged story. It is the third part of Slim and Jess's extra-terrestrial encounters which began in ' _Hold On'._ The second part is still being written.

Copyright: the non-gender-specific pronouns in this story are copyright Bright Hawk Books and are used with permission. This usage cannot be adopted without legal permission from Bright Hawk Books UK. (Contact Jantallian via Fanfiction email).

CTCC - Cross Temporal Central Control (CT-Control in speech)

CTRRT - Cross Temporal Rapid Reaction Team (Usually abbreviated to RRT in speech).

' _More stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron_.' — William Shakespeare, _King John, Act 4, Sc. 1_

Officer name derivations:

Kâhin - (Turkish: seer, soothsayer. Story: one who provides information/prediction).

Dumenchi - (Turkish dümenci: literally one who steers, secondarily trickster. Story: guider of morale, jester/trickster, one who makes crew re-evaluate situations and ideas. As used, can also be interpreted as 'dumen' (Sikh) = Life of Being and 'chi' (Chinese) = essential energy.

Healkin - (Turkish hekim: physician. Story: Chief Medical Officer).

Locations on an IG Raptor:

The Reviv is the Infirmary or Medical bay.

Gather Cabins are places used for whole crew forums or mission team meetings; they vary in size.

'Ajax' is Raptor slang for the bathroom/toilet facility. The Ajax was the first flushing toilet ("a jakes"; jakes being an old slang word for toilet).


	7. Chapter 7

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 **Shirt Tale 7**

 **The Girl I Left Behind Me**

.

"There's a parcel for Jess."

"Thanks."

"Sender gave particular instructions to make sure it got directly into his hands."

"I'll see it does."

"Must be something valuable?"

"You can rely on me!"

Slim Sherman tucked the brown paper parcel under his arm. It felt soft, so he didn't reckon he would do it much harm and his hands were full of all the other mail. He walked briskly back to where the relay station wagon was hitched outside the General Store and Jess was just loading the last few sacks of supplies.

"Better get the canvas up. Looks like a storm blowin' down on us."

"Right."

They worked in efficient silence to secure the wagon and the precious supplies. They couldn't afford to lose anything, finances being on a knife-edge as usual. As he took up the reins and urged his team forward, Slim thought ruefully of all the sweat and toil and hardship and danger and sometimes tragedy and heartache which had gone into establishing towns like Laramie and ranches like his pa's. He didn't want an easy life – hard work was both honest and honorable – but the margin between prosperity and poverty could be frighteningly small.

This time, however, they were in luck. They made it home ahead of the storm and were able to unload and store all their purchases before the wind and rain caught up and hit them. It was only when they were inside, replete with a good savory stew and toasting their socks in front of the fire, with the rain slashing at the windows and drumming steadily on the roof, that Slim fulfilled his promise to deliver Jess's parcel.

He got up and retrieved it from the top of his desk, where he had set it for safety while they unloaded. "Here. Joe Staines said this came for you."

Jess took the parcel and looked uncertainly at the address. There was no mistaking. It was his name and it was addressed to the relay station. The writing was clear enough, although rather ornamental.

Slim watched as his friend hesitated. The writing suggested strongly that the sender was a woman. Slim wondered very much who and why, but was naturally too polite to ask.

"Go on, open it. It won't bite."

Jess grinned. "Y' never know! Just can't think who'd be sendin' me a parcel."

"So open it and find out!" Slim told him logically.

The parcel was well secured and wrapped in several layers of the brown paper. When Jess had stripped it all off, the innermost layer proved to be a folded cured sheepskin, providing both padding and protection. Jess opened it out and lifted the contents, looking mightily puzzled.

In his hands was a shirt. A shirt of quite an old-fashioned design. A dark blue shirt. A shirt with distinctive trefoil white dots, like small flowers, on the dark blue background.

Slim said nothing. The moment seemed somehow fragile, almost like the rather fragile-looking texture of the old material. It was as if something very precious and easily damaged had fallen into Jess's keeping. Why an old shirt should have such a significance was hard to see, but there was an envelope tucked into the folds of it.

Jess laid the garment down carefully over the arm of the sofa, opened the envelope and unfolded the single sheet of paper inside it. He stared at it for several minutes, then looked up at Slim with a sigh. "You're better'n me at unpicking other folk's writin'. Can you read it to me?"

Slim took the letter. "If you're sure?"

Jess nodded.

Slim looked down and saw at once that the rather elaborate cursive hand was not easy to read because the letter had been crossed, although thankfully only once; in order to make the precious paper go as far as possible two lines of writing crossed each other at right angles on each page. It was no wonder Jess found it confusing. Slim focused his gaze carefully and began to read:

 _Dear Jess,_

 _I am hoping that this parcel, with its contents and my letter, will reach you safely. I also hope you will forgive my temerity in taking steps to obtain your address and in reminding you of the past. You will see why I have taken such action from the content of this letter, but please be assured that I am not going to come calling or making a nuisance of myself. I just want to ask you to do something for me and I feel, looking back to the time when you were the only person who troubled whether I lived or died, that you will understand my request._

 _First I should explain how I came to know your address and your circumstances because this is an invasion of your privacy. After you had taken me safely to Fort Dunbar, I was some months there, recuperating from my exhaustion and experiences, and being treated with great kindness by the officers' ladies. When at last I was fit to travel once more, there was nowhere for a twelve year old girl to go but back east, to my few remaining relatives. I remember telling you all about my beloved grandma and grandpa, when I was swept away by the passionate grief of a bereaved child. I thought they were dead too. I did not know then that, on hearing of the massacre in which my Mamma and I were caught, they had turned back from the trail west and left the wagon train which was following ours. On reaching the nearest secure town, they had moved heaven and earth to find out what had happened to us and when news of my safety reached them, I swear they thought you were an actual angel for your part in my rescue! With them and in their care, I returned east and we eventually settled in Greenville, not far from the town for which I was named._

 _Some years passed and I gradually overcame the night-terrors, not least because of what you taught me while we were still in the wilderness. You said that the good things and the love I had known were a rock to shelter me and give me firm footing when the storm of remembered horror broke over me. My grandparents were part of my rock, but so were you, even though I understood that we would probably never meet again. You can imagine my shock, therefore, when one evening, at a small ball given to raise the spirits of us youngsters during these hard times, I saw you again. Or rather, I saw a young man so exactly like you on the day you found me that I knew he must be a relative. He was about the same age too and had the same dark hair and the brightest blue eyes I've ever seen, excepting only yours. So I asked him, point blank, if his name was Harper. He was startled nearly out of his wits, but conceded cautiously that he had gone by the name in his childhood._

 _At this point in my letter I cannot contain my joy, for I remember so vividly the night under the blood moon when we shared all we had lost of our families. You said very little about your feelings, but the grief in you was utterly cold and deep as any lake to drown in. You thought you had lost even those you rescued. But I can tell you now that your brother, Johnny, is alive. He would not say much about his experiences, for he had obviously suffered horribly during the war and afterwards. But he is alive! And when he heard my story, he agreed to see if he could provide means for me to contact you. After this one encounter, he disappeared from Greenville, leaving no links behind him. To my deep regret, I cannot help to reunite the two of you. Not long after, however, I received a letter from a Mrs. McKittrick in California. She had heard, in a roundabout way, of your rescue of me and my need to contact you. Of course you already know Francie is alive too, but my heart was very glad to know this was so, when I received her kind and understanding letter._

 _So at last I am able to write, not just to tell you the news about your brother, who was dead and is alive again, but to ask if you will do something for me? It is not onerous or dishonorable and I hope you will accept because you are the only person left to whom I want to pass on something precious in my family._

 _Aside from my grandpa, I had no male relatives left. When you and I were together, I told you I thought my older brother, Adam, might have survived the war. I lived with this hope for some time, but alas! it was in vain. We discovered he had been killed in the retreat from Atlanta. His body was buried by some kindly people who found him at the roadside. A little over a year ago, my grandpa also died. I think the war and its suffering and the loss of his entire family except me had finally worn out his spirit. But he gave me something which was intended for my brother: a family talisman, which Adam never received before he went away to war. It is passed to each male born in the family when they achieved maturity. It has always belonged in the hands of the men, but now there are no men left. There may never be any more and if there are, it will not be for many years and only then if I am fortunate to be blessed with sons. This is why I am sending you my great, great, great grandfather's shirt and asking that you will keep it and honor it, for there is no-one else who is a brother to me as you are._

 _There is a story behind the shirt. It was sent to the first owner as an insult by his enemy, who believed that no man could wear it, even for a day, and face up to the inevitable mockery and not become engaged in duels which would almost certainly result in serious injury or death. But my many-greats grandfather believed there was more to being a man than just fighting and that weapons should only be drawn in righteous anger, not because of mockery or insults or fear of losing face. He wore the shirt for a day and kept his integrity, his dignity and his temper. Since then, every boy in the family, as he attains manhood, has worn this shirt for a single day as a sign of his commitment to those values._

 _Now I ask you to hold it in trust – for my sons and for your own. Thank you, Jess, from the deep well of my heart and in memory of our shared grief._

 _Charlotte Elizabeth Goodwin_

Slim fell silent, holding the letter lightly and tenderly in his hands. Jess was not looking at the shirt. His gaze was fixed on the flames in the hearth and Slim guessed his mind was far away with the fire which had deprived him of nearly all his family. After an appreciable while, Jess did stir and look down at the faded silk of the blue spotted shirt. Written on his face was the knowledge of the trust of which he had been deemed worthy and the realization that he had just gained another sister.

"What will you do?" Slim asked softly, although he was pretty certain he knew the answer. "Will you keep it?"

Jess's eyes sparkled with a light which was not from the lamp or the fire. "Yeah," he agreed equally softly, "I'll hold it and honour it and more than that, for twenty four hours, I'm gonna wear it and wear it with pride!"

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Notes:

Yes, Charlotte's story is in the pipeline. Johnny's is still in my imagination.

' _The letter had been crossed'_ \- Common practice in times when paper was in short supply and very expensive. In order to save paper, the writer would cover both sides, then turn the paper round at 90 degrees and write across what they had already written. Sometimes they would then write diagonally, which made reading such letters very difficult!

Finally - why _else_ might Jess have opted to wear that spotted shirt …? In the words of the old song: ' _Here's bread and cheese upon the shelf – if you want any more, you can sing it yourself!'_ or, of course, you could just email me more ideas!

Acknowledgements:

 _For extremely thorough beta work by Westfalen, especially on Tale 6: thank you very much!_

 _For all chapters: The great creative writing of the 'Laramie' series is respectfully acknowledged. My stories are purely for pleasure and are inspired by the talents of the original authors, producers and actors._


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